


Symphobie

by writingwoman



Category: johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Blue in blue, Bodyguard, Fluff, Great duchess, Hugs, I swear, Jealousy, John and Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Russia, SOLDIER - Freeform, Smut, Sweet, Tears, Tsarina, Violinist, War, Winter Palace, alternative universe, bullet wounds, but you won’t regret reading this, so do read it, tsar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 06:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingwoman/pseuds/writingwoman
Summary: He loved him. He loved him with every inch and bone in his body and, even if there were billions of them, with every cell.(I know what the tags say, but this deserves more recognition. You won’t regret it, I promise!❤️)





	Symphobie

The music notes were filling that small room, full of shelves and boxes spread around in a messy way. The young Holmes, that of school he wanted little, had decided to go to his favorite music shop to pass the boring time. Old vinyl discs, cds and tapes: in that small shop you could find anything and surely enough the brown haired guy was aware of it, since he was used to spend the majority of his time inside that musical memorabilia.

As he stepped inside the fancied with a beautiful poster of Janis Joplin door, his nostrils were immediately invaded by a strong fust smell, but fortunately he had become used to it by then.

As soon as he reached the other door, the one that led to the back of the shop, he was able to hear the violin strings vibrating even louder, notes intertwining in perfect symphony. A little bit hesitant, the young boy named William opened the door, trying not to interrupt the wonderful melody that was attracting and overwhelming him like a stormy sea.

Willliam had never felt that way. It was as if he had an illness inside him but that, even so, somehow, it was still pleasant.

Standing with his back just slightly facing William, with his eyes closed and ginger hair covering his forehead, the violinist seemed to be suffering as much as William himself, who, because of the overwhelming feelings, had to sit down in a nearby chair, between boxes of new stuff.

The long fingers of the owner of the shop, noticed the boy, were skillfully moving the oaky brown stick over the light strings of that violin just like a butterfly leans on the most beautiful of flowers, dancing and roaming before finding the right one, just to then leave again and begin the search for a new one. And the music he was listening to then was exactly like that: composed by many of those breathtaking flowers that fill a spring field, it was a music that left no one indifferent, not even William, who had found a sense of familiarity with the song.

And while the heart of said man was tightening more and more, the melody had began to fade, becoming slower and lighter by the second.

"Will, did you skip school again?" asked the violinist, finishing off the song. The brownie, still a bit shaken up, took a few seconds to himself before coming back on planet Earth. "It was beautiful the thing you played, Vic."

The man, of about twenty-two years of age, was called Victor Trevor and had his hair orange like a carrot. He gently put down his violin inside its cage and smiled lovingly at Will before turning up his sleeves, picking up one of the boxes off the ground. "Your mum will kill me if she finds out you're here at this hour." 

William ignored his words, walking closer to the violin that blew him away. He grazed at the strings, casually pulling one or two. "What was that melody called?" he asked, wishing he could play it himself.

The owner looked at him curiously, fascinated by the interest shown by the boy. He knew that William liked that type of music but seeing him so involved in that particular piece couldn't do anything to him if not warm him inside.

"It doesn't have a name." He revealed, tidying up a few of the boxes by their date of arrival. William didn't turn and sat down next to the violin, keeping on studying it. "Who wrote it?" he asked again.

"A certain Sherlock.. I don't know the surname."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

Victor chuckled, leaving the boxes behind and walking closer to the boy. He blocked his hands from prickling the violin strings because, other than making a tedious sound, he wasn't able to hear William properly. 

"He lived in Russia about a century ago."

The boy widened his eyes, before freeing himself up from the grip. "Oh." He exclaimed, remembering some history lessons on Russia..

"Wasn't there a revolution during that time?" he asked, trying to remember the dates the teacher had many times advised him to study.

"Exactly. See? School is good for you, Will." Laughed again Victor, that was smaller than William but had a heart as big as England.

Little William though wasn't laughing, too busy on trying to make his brain work and put in chronological order every single event of the first world war. "So how come you have the sheet music?"

"That music is a too beautiful love story not to be handed down." The ginger replied, thoughtful. He scratched the back of his head and looked at the young boy that had become more like a brother to him. "Well, since you've already basically skipped school, do you want to listen to the story?"

William didn't hesitate, he nodded quickly and watched as the older man sat in front of him.

"See, William, this story begins very far away from here. And you need to know something. The melody you heard wasn't written just because, nor for economic purposes. Sherlock composed it for one person and one person only: his John."

**JUNE 1916, SAINT PETERSBURG.**

Anastasija Nikolaevna Romanova had the habit of climbing trees in the huge garden of the Winter Palace, even when the bulky dresses weren't easing her ascending. She liked sitting on the highest branch, the one that allowed her to be closer to the sky upon St. Petersburg and protected her from the outside world. But Anastasija didn't like the compromise of sky and Russia, she wanted to tear that blue veil and run away, fly towards those western lands that seemed so far away. Her dad was used to tell her stories about those wonderful places, that one day were going to be a part of the Russian empire and with that she would have been able to visit whenever she pleased. So the fourteen year old would stand upon the branch and screamed out her name just to remind the population that she was there and that she would have become the tsarina of the whole world, no country excluded.

Anastasija was good at dreaming, but less good at abiding by her father's rules. And her father was Nikolaj Aleksandrovic Romanov II, tsar of all of Russia, everyone obeyed his orders but the long auburn haired, little girl with the bluest of eyes.

Because if the great duchess had listened to her father she wouldn't have spent the next two days in bed with scratched knees and a wrapped foot.

"Anya, why do you do it? I told you not to climb." The tsar had whispered, squeezing his daughter's hand between his. It was one of the fewest times where the cold heart of Nikolaj melted and from an emperor it transformed into a simple father who loved his numerous offspring widely.

Anastasija loved the man who was holding her like she was a fragile creature more than anything else, but she would have never told him that all the things she did, all the pranks they all pulled were just to draw their mother's attention who was just too occupied to look after the littlest of the sons, the tsarevich Aleksej. So, calmly, she replied with: "I was bored.", she shrugged and masked her face with a smile, the most beautiful one, to enter into his father's graces.

And the tsar would fall for it every time. Seeing his daughter like that, with bandages and such, would melt his icy heart like nothing else.

Nikolaj had never spoiled his daughters, because his job was to raise them strong but always humble and sober. They didn't have luxurious rooms with everything inside, no: little Anya shared her room with her sister Marija, fourteen years old, a cold bath in the morning, a hot bath in the evening and a cot without pillows was all they had. But that day the tsar made an exception, so caressing her head with his hand he asked simply: "Do you want me to do something for you? Your birthday's near."

He wasn't angry, he couldn't be. He knew Anastasija was the ṧvibzik of the family, the prankster. All of his children were different from each others: Ol'ga, the oldest who was now twenty one, was known for her honesty, but also from her bluntness.

Tat'jana , nineteen, from the sisters she was called 'the housekeeper' because she liked taking care of everything and everyone.

Marija was considered the 'angel' of the family, the most calm and disciplined of them all, envied by all for her undying kindness.

The little Aleksej, twelve years old was the pride of Russia, the successor of Nikolaj for the throne. Everyone was super attentive of him, probably because he was the only male, more likely because he was seriously ill.

Then there was Anya, fourteen years and a colorful mind: anything could live in her imagination, in her head. She wouldn't stop for anything in the world, she was full of life, joy but at the same time she was very cunning and smart despite her young age. She was the clown of the house, the failed boy, people had said, that loved to bombard the soldiers in the house with paper bullets. You couldn't not love the girl, just like you couldn't hate anyone in that family, so dedicated to the people like nobody else.

On the bed of her small bedroom, frowning in thought and with her hand under her chin, "a violinist! I want to learn to play the violin!" was the wish expressed by Anastasija, joining her hands together and smiling widely.

The tsar looked at her a little bit weirded out, asking himself what was going on inside the great duchess's little head. "Anya, you're already taking piano and dance lessons, and all of the other subjects. Other commitments will tire you." He said, with a diplomatic tone.

Anastasija shrugged and hugged her father tighter than ever, a bit to win the argument and a bit because days had passed from their last hug. "Please!" she whispered in his ear, bringing her lower lip forward, pouting.

And no, the tsar won every war, but not with his daughter, the little girl always got what she wanted.

"Why are you telling me about the Romanov family? If I had known I would have gone to school!" Exclaimed William, standing up from his chair, scoffing. Victor started laughing, filling the room with what could easily substitute the last remaining of the melody's notes. William could still perfectly hear it, or was it maybe his heart beating along with it? 

The ginger one grabbed his arm strongly, making him sit back down and stopping his tracks. "You can't even go home now, William. Your mother would ground you forever. And anyway this is just the beginning of the story." He revealed, messing the boy's hair.

The young Holmes frowned, but muttered a small "fine." And nodded to his friend to go on.

At noon the next day, a guy with a blue scarf around his neck and a black coat, one with those high collars, entered the Winter Palace, studying around and laying his suitcase on the ground with his gloved hand.

A servant happily greeted him, walking towards him and picking up his suitcase, right before taking him around the place. The guy held himself close into his coat, as his eyes started scanning the insides of the building. It was true that Nijolaj had had his kids used to being humble, but the place they were living in was telling otherwise. Gold decorations, mosaic floors, elements of the baroque and neoclassical times, things that the young man had only studied. But destiny wanted to bet on him, so he found himself walking inside the tsar palace without being half-aware of it.

The servant stopped in front of a white marbled door, knocking lightly.

"Come in." a feminine, muffled voice called, allowing the servant to open the door of a bedroom, the most beautiful he had ever seen. In the middle there were two little couches with red fabric, decorated in gold. The room was lighted by two big windows that viewed the gardens. On the walls, there were paintings of western authors, or so the guy deduced.

The young man had never seen the tsarina in person. She was the empress of the Russias and yet he had never had the chance to see her, because while her husband Nikolaj was used to be seen, she'd rarely go out in public. The first thing he checked off of his list was that the legends were true. She had an unreal beauty. Aleksandra Fëdorovna Romanova had fair skin and was as blonde as wheat. Her features were delicate and somehow elegant, hands were spindly, pale. She was wearing a wide light blue dress, with white and blue merlons that were bringing out her almost white irises.

"This is the violin teacher." Pronounced the servant before walking away with a bow.

The guy didn't ask himself how the woman knew who he was, deduced he was waited by everyone at court. He found himself alone in that room, in front of the most important woman in the world. He cleared his throat, bowed his head. "Zdràstvujt'i, your highness."

The tsarina didn't say anything after that "Hello.", but kept on sipping what Sherlock assumed was tea, in complete stillness. He noticed the woman's lips, thin as the German's. And as every other Germans he had met, she radiated nothing but coldness that certainly didn't bother him, being that way as well.

"You must be Sherlock." Said Aleksandra, tugging a strand of hair away from her face, closer to the small diamond crown, symbol of her sovereignty.

The man nodded, bowing again. "At your service."

"Everybody talks about your music. I just hope you won't let down my little Anastasija."

Sherlock gulped and shook his head, knowing well enough he could do it, he was probably the best violinist of all Russia. And that was a golden opportunity, in every sense, and he couldn't decline.

"I should hope so, too." The guy added, before being taken away by a servant he had heard come in despite his effort not to be hears. He shot a last look at the room and maybe he was wrong, though unlikely, but saw the tsarina's knuckles becoming whiter than her hands around her cup. Sherlock shook his head again, nothing could upset the strong soul of Aleksandra, or so everyone said. And yet, in that hand white as snow, something he had seen.

He was given a modest room with a canopy bed, white sheet and a small desk on which Sherlock could already see himself writing letters to his family, even though they weren't that close, his mother had insisted. He lived in Moscow but due to his work he was forced to travel around Russia, getting by with a few private concerts and lessons given to noble's sons. He put on his best suit to meet the great duchess and future student.

"But hold on Vic, wasn't there the first world war going on?" Asked William, beginning to lose himself in the ginger's words, getting invested in the Russian culture and everything else the man was telling him. He wanted to know more about Sherlock and heck, he wanted to know about the famous John.

"Yes and Nikolaj was in it with all of his being." Explained Victor, standing up to fetch something to eat for his friend. He didn't have much in the shop, so he limited himself to bring him a tray of ginger-nuts. William grabbed one and asked: "Also, didn't Russia already have had problems with revolutions?"

Victor looked at him weird, surprised by the brownie's knowledge. The young Holmes showed a satisfied smile. "The history test will go smoothly."

"Yes, in 1905." He explained. "But one way or another Nikolaj II was able to push way the revolution and despite the turbulences, he was also able to bring the empire back to its original glory, with some compromise."

"A strong man, this Nikolaj." The youngest affirmed, biting down on the biscuit.

"Quite. But maybe his daughter Anastasija was that even more."

Anastasija Nikolaevna Romanova hated having blue eyes. And if she had a reason why, it was because she had the same set of eyes of Aleksandra.

Anya loved her, yes, but since her little brother Aleksej was born she had began to nurture a sort of hatred towards her mother, or that's what she called it inside of her, despite her knowing it was only jealousy. She wanted to have her for herself, but that never happened and Anya was heart-broken for it. Even so, she wouldn't stop smiling, fake or not, she was always smiling.

Or almost.

Because when she saw Sherlock for the first time, the violinist her father had chosen for her, the great duchess didn't smile at all.

Sherlock had blueish eyes as well and Anya was fed up with all of the blue surrounding her, all that ice.

The young violinist had just walked inside the room and seeing Anastasija on the verge of crying wasn't part of his plans. He wasn't that good with kids, he knew, but he didn't know what was happening to her and he had no idea of how to handle it; so he just bowed and said "I'm your violinist, great duchess Anastasija."

But the girl had no intention of speaking to him. She was seated on a chair, a small violin in her hands. All of her wanting to learn to play the instrument disappeared in a second, letting a wave of resentment towards the blue eyed man in front of her, take place.

"Shall we begin the lesson?" Sherlock tried again, picking up the violin next to him. He played a few notes just to test the sound and, satisfied, sat next to the girl with a big smile on his lips, trying so hard to seem nice not really succeeding. "So what do you know about the violin?"

"Nothing." Replied little Anya, crossing her little arms with a frown, just like when she was ten and none of her sisters wanted to play with her. And with Sherlock, then, she had already decided she wanted nothing to do with him.

"How about I teach you the basic scale?" he asked again, trying to show kindness in his tone, something that he wasn't used of having in him. But the child didn't respond, kept her arms crossed tightly against her chest letting Sherlock know that that was going to be a long Winter.

***

"Papa, I don't want to play the piano anymore!" said Anastasija, trying to melt his father with her soft faces. But the tsar had something else on his mind at that moment, and unfortunately for the great duchess, he couldn't waste his time with her daughter's whims. "Anya we already discussed this. Sherlock stays and you'll keep on learning. A Romanov never abandons their commitments and you know it." The elder replied, pushing his daughter away from his desk.

"Now go, I have important businesses to deal with."

The little girl had to go and it's useless to say that crying didn't move anything in her favor. As she was walking out, she walked past Aleksandra's stern look. Immediately her tears stopped, she couldn't show weakness to her mother. Though, the tsarina didn't pay attention to it while she walked inside her husband's room.

"Nikolaij, any news?" she anxiously asked, closing the door behind her, leaving their daughter outside, aching for the violin lesson she was about to enter into.

"France and England are still on with the undersea wars." He revealed, serious, leaning his chin on his joined hands. "The situation is too important to let it pass and let Europe handle it."

"I'm worried about our kids." The woman added, biting her lip in apprehension. Probablynobody had ever seen her in those conditions. Everyone knew she was a stern and unattached woman, many thought she didn't even have a heart.

But when she was with her husband, Aleksandra was herself and she'd let herself go into her emotions.

"I already thought about it, don't worry." Replied the tsar, trying to calm both of them down. "They're going to have personal bodyguards, chosen by me from the best soldiers. They'll be safe."

"For now." The tsarina added, eyes under the candle light seemed to be tearing up.

_"My God, Anastasija is a real pain in the a-"_

"William." Chuckled Victor, stopping whatever insult was about to come out of his mouth towards the Russian duchess.

"Seriously, she was so full of complexes to be just a kid!" he went on, chewing on his fifth gingernut. The ginger haired man glared at him.

"She had a lot of pressure on herself. She was fourteen but she was still a Romanov."

"Yeah, whatever." Commented William.

**OCTOBER 1916, ST. PETERSBURG.**

Anastasija hated the wars, with all her heart. She didn't want her country to lose souls like when she was younger. She had a noble soul that not many had, even if she tried in many ways to hide it.

When her father announced she would have had had her own bodyguard, little Anya stifled a laugh, a bit hysterical to be honest, and replied: "I can perfectly defend myself!" Not believing a word she'd said.

At midday of the next day, a man with a Busby and a heavy coat wrapped around him, one of those with a fur hood, made his way into the Winter Palace, looking around and leaning on the ground his suitcase.

A servant- the same servant that knew everything about everyone- greeted him cheerfully, walking towards him and picking up his suitcase, leading him to the great duchess's room.

"Great duchess, this is your new bodyguard, John."

Anastasija was focused on looking at the violin like a monster, while Sherlock explained her for the one-hundredth time the basic scale. The servant's voice interrupted their lesson, making them turn towards the guest.

_"That's when it happened?" asked William._

_"That's when it happened." Echoed Victor._

_The golden-blue eyes of Sherlock locked perfectly in the blue of the new arrival ones, of slicked back, blondish hair and a pair of thin but pink lips, of a beauty he wasn't familiar with. The violinist looked away, blushing a little at the sight of the soldier._

The duchess smiled and walked towards John, hugging him instinctively as if he was an old friend of hers. She had been captivated by that boy, exactly like Sherlock.

"You must be Anya." Said John, hugging her back and taking the liberty of calling her by the nickname she was given by her parents. Sherlock should have been bothered by it, how dared he call the great duchess of Russia that? But he couldn't, because the soft tone of the soldier kept on singing in his ears, melting him slowly.

"And you must be my guardian angel!" She'd exclaimed, clapping her hands happily. "I'm so happy you're here!" she'd added, before running away from the room with a "I'll go and get your room ready!" shout.

Sherlock didn't move at all. He was staring at his violin strings, counting them, noticing the details. Everything to distract himself from those blue eyes like the seas he'd never visited, but could only imagine through the books. He could hear John's boots squeak, as he came closer to the instrument he was holding, very slowly, torturing the mental sanity of the poor violinist.

He could feel him behind him, but couldn't turn. He side-eyed his movements, he'd picked the little girl's instrument and prickled a few strings, casually. And then Sherlock, still frozen like a picture, heard his laugh for the first time. Beautiful, clean, breathtaking. No, Sherlock wasn't breathing at all while the celestial sound was invading him without consent, filling his lungs instead of air, almost killing him.

"The violin is such a great invention!" exclaimed John, putting the instrument down and sitting down next to it. "Too bad I'm not good with music." He'd added, frowning a little, as his hand scratched his head.

Sherlock let himself look up from the wooden piece. He noticed how his fingers were moving inside the short hair, light from the windows kissing it. He stopped to admire his long, blond, eyelashes that framed the cobalt crystals he had instead of eyes. He lingered on the pronounced bags under them, making his face almost angel-like. But no, he didn't stop to admire his lips, because he was already too flushed and didn't want to worsen the situation. John stood silent, waiting for a comment that didn't come. He had a cocky smile on his face and his brows were furrowed, curious.

"Did someone bite your tongue?" He'd asked, staring at the violinist intensely. Sherlock's cheeks were on fire and he hated it. He shook his head. "Not a man of many words."

Banal excuse that made John's eyes narrow and mouth curl up in a laugh.

"Oh, well I am." He'd affirmed, pleased. "I'm John, by the way." He'd added, standing back up.

"I know." Muttered Sherlock, glancing back down at his violin. But again, the soldier walked with a feline pace in front of him, making the golden-eyed man tense like one of his violin strings. His fingers went once more on the strings, this time of Sherlock's violin, forcing said man to move his hand from the last one.

"I know you know." Muttered back John, with a smirk. Sherlock started, hearing the soldier's voice so close and warm, seducing his mind. "But I told you in hope to learn yours, of name." he'd whispered lower than before, getting close to Sherlock's ear.

The violinist trembled slightly, the closeness was making every single organ fail inside him. Maybe he was going to die, and for once he had to thank Anastasija for storming inside the room, screaming happily.

"Jooohn! Let's go, I'll show you your room!" She grabbed the arm of the young guard, taking him away and not caring slightly of what was happing in front of those violins.

But Sherlock did care. He cared all night, because John's face had haunted him, denying him to do anything, sleeping as well.

***

John's room was quite small, but still one of the most luxurious ones. He wouldn't have spent too much time in that room, just those moments he had to sleep, during the changing of the guard. That morning, John woke up happy.

The mirror was reflecting the image of a smiling man, but even the glass object knew it was a fake one, of tiredness. He wore the dark green uniform and the heavy boots, trying to fix his slicked back hair.

The breakfast room was already full, despite the early hour. Every person that lived in the palace but wasn't related to the family was used to wake up before dawn, so that they could get breakfast and bathroom ready in time for the Romanov family's awakening.

John, that during breakfast had little wish to talk, tried to avoid his soldier buddies, keeping his eyes on the ground while at the same time looking for some food.

And to run away from the futile talks of his mates, he bumped against someone who made his heart beat quicker than what the doctor suggests is healthy.

"Good morning, violinist." He'd cheered, looking for those blue eyes that had invaded his mind in the past twenty four hours.

Sherlock had already woken up with the wrong foot that day. Not really woken up since he hadn't even slept. Not that he particularly minded it, he did think sleep was a little overrated. But still, life inside the palace wasn't easy, little Anastasija kept on not wanting to follow the lessons nor practice. And now sure, the presence of that soldier whom he found appealing, wasn't helping. "Hello." He muttered quietly, trying so hard not to look inside those light-blue eyes. Sherlock would have wanted to walk away and have breakfast by himself, but the room was so full of people that he wouldn't have been able to find a way out. "Do you know where they keep the black tea? I can't seem to find it around." Asked John, pretending to look around but not losing sight of the taller, curly haired man, of which he still didn't know the name.

The soldier noticed the one he was talking to was carrying a plate filled with biscuits and without asking permission he grabbed one, taking it up to his mouth. "You don't mind, do you?" he'd asked then, as his lips had already grazed the sweet.

Sherlock for the second time in twenty four hours, thought he'd die. He saw him biting the biscuit slowly, tasting it, leaving crumbs everywhere, especially over those pink hills that Sherlock wanted to graze, a touch of finger so chaste he wouldn't have even noticed it. He closed his eyes, hoping to forget the so much beauty of a mouth, tightening his grip on the plate so much that his knuckles whitened.

John stopped chewing the moment he realized the state of the violinist. He found it very amusing, a bit flushed, eyes closed and his lips slightly parted. At that wonderful sight he couldn't do anything but run his thumb along one of the man's cheeks. Sherlock snapped open his eyes, his hands dropping the plate on the ground, in a loud noise that made everyone turn in their direction.

John murmured a "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you", before kneeling down to fix the mess the taller one had made. Sherlock stood still, his heart throbbing in his throat like a hammer destroying a wall. He tried to calm down by breathing slowly and bringing one hand upon his chest. He could feel it, it was there, his heart rumbling like an engine, ready to pollute each organ, soul and mind as well.

He counted up to ten, before kneeling next to the soldier, avoiding his gaze. "I apologize." He stuttered low, hoping John didn't hear him. Of course he did, though, loud and clear.

"It's all fine! It was my fault." Said John, pushing the violinist's hands away from the plate. He felt a bit of a shiver down his spine at the contact of his hands with the long ones of the violinist, but blamed it on the cold Russian dawn. "Don't touch the potsherds, you could cut yourself."

Sherlock looked at him weird, surprised by the gesture. "You need your hands to work." He'd added, picking up the last pieces of what was left of the plate.

He didn't even have time to throw the pieces away that Sherlock had already walked away.

**NOVEMBER 1916, SAINT PETERSBURG.**

It had been five months since Sherlock's arrival at the palace. Luckily for him, despite Anastasija wasn't making any progress, little Marija had started taking lessons as well, surely with more interest than her sister. With the littlest of the family he was comfortable with, a little because she learned fast, and a little because he was able to stay away from Anastasija's bodyguard.

It had been a month since John's arrival and Sherlock had tried his best to avoid him. He didn't mind skipping meals and dining in his bedroom, he sure as heck didn't want to meet those eyes.

Sherlock was afraid of that light blue coloration, that often enough, with the right light, reminded him of how it fit with the uniform that John was used to wear.

The situation would become complicated every time the violinist had to tutor the great duchess Anastasija. He was forced to meet him and to greet him with a nod of the head, though he was always able to escape before getting a reply.

Except for that cold November day, and all of the following.

"I want to dance! Play something danceable, Sherlock." Ordered Anastasija, too excited to do a serious lesson. That morning the little great duchess had spent some time with her father, after a long time away because of the war. So for that, the auburn haired girl had her eyes filled with joy that day, cheering everyone she met inside the Winter Palace. When she smiled, it wasn't so Winter, Sherlock stopped to think, despite the resentment of their relationship.

He sighed, hoping for the attention of Marija a few hours later. He closed his eyes before allowing himself to the strings of his violin. When he played, Sherlock didn't need anything else but those. The strings of the wooden object worked perfectly with the horse hair of his bow, they completed each other. And that's how he felt when he played: complete.

He began playing Tchaikovsky 1812 Overture, a piece Sherlock loved. Anastasija stood still for a moment, admiring his skill: she had never heard him playing in a continuous way, an entire melody. Her blue eyes shined a little, just like the violinist's that played, had fun, made love with those notes.

She twirled around, following the melody that was then filling the room. The skirt was moving with her andwith that also the little white bow showing from her red-ish hair.

"John come here!" She'd screamed at a certain point. Sherlock stopped for a moment, just a moment, a silence that Anastasija had mistaken for a normal pause. He started playing again. Usually, during lessons, the soldier would stay outside the door, luckily for Sherlock, to send away eventual bores. But when he heard the name his heart decided to skip a beat. He tried not to think about it and kept on playing the melody not to lose the rhythm of it.

The crystal laugh came clear in Sherlock's ears that for the first time while he played, heard something else rather than his own heart. In that laugh he had heard John's heart too, beating loud, vivace, allegro, presto, prestissimo and all of those adjectives he was used of matching with music.

The soldier laughed out loud as he watched Anastasija dancing with so much energy and was dragging him along with her. "I can't dance, Anya!" he'd screamed in between laughs, having his hands taken by the little lady.

Sherlock could hear them behind him. He could sense the messy steps of John, with those noisy boots. He could feel the air moving due to the jumps and turns that Anastasija was doing, the slight roar of her white as the snow that was covering the Palace's gardens dress, white as the horse hair of his bow, his fingers pressing a bit stronger on the strings, trying to distract himself from the male figure that was clumsily dancing.

He played for about five minutes before starting to fade the melody away, letting it live in the air and maybe in the hearts of all three of them. He smiled satisfied, music was the only thing that could make him feel good and fulfilled.

But his smile disappeared when he remembered that sooner or later he would have had to turn around.

"That was very nice of you, John." Had pronounced Anastasija happily, doing a last turn to end her dance with her soldier. "I'll make you something to eat, okay?" she'd asked/told. Sherlock smiled slightly, he was glad to know that with John she behaved well and in a nice way. He also knew that she was like that with everybody but him and that had a bittersweet effect on him.

_"Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women."_

"Tolstoj." Whispered Sherlock, blinking a couple of times before turning around. "War and peace, Tolstoj." He repeated in the soldier's direction. He noticed just then that Anastasija had walked off and that the bright eyes of John were studying him head to toe. He cleared his throat a brought a hand up to his mouth as if he had said something not good.

"You can talk!" John exclaimed surprised, making his heart skip a few beats.

Even my heart has musical pauses, thought Sherlock looking at the boy.

"If you can quote War and Peace you can also tell me your name." Had whispered John, walking closer to Sherlock just like their first time.

"I didn't think you knew Tolstoj." Blurted out the violinist. He ran a hand through his curls, letting one fall over his forehead, hoping to find the solution in there, knowing he'd probably find it in John's blonde hair, hair he wanted to touch with his long fingers.

"Are you calling me an ignorant?" frowned the soldier, pointing his eyes directly at Sherlock's who waved his hands in front of him to deny his assumptions.

"Of course not!" He didn't mean to raise his voice, and certainly he didn't mean to tremble while saying it. Because Sherlock, even if he was very good at hiding his emotions on the outside, had worries and fears, long cries with tears that were stuck, trapped inside the eyes made golden.

"I'm joking."

John smiled at him a few moments after having said those words, bringing his fingers close to the violinist's face like he had done a month before, with the difference that now Sherlock had his eyes open. He grazed his colored cheek with his thumb, making him shiver just a little, getting lost in his eyes that reminded him of the ocean.

"Since I know and have read Tolstoj, can I have the honor of knowing your name?" he asked politely, not moving his finger away from his skin, attracting him like a magnet.

"Sherlock." Breathed out said man. He was melting into those delicate gestures and he hated the fact that he loved it.

"A British name. I like it." John moved away from the violinist's cheek, achingly. "Sherlock." He repeated again, wanting to have the sensation to have it on his lips, even just abstractedly. "It sounds so good."

John didn't say anything. He turned and leaned his violin inside its cage, moving his gaze from the smaller man.

"Sherlock." Repeated for the second time the soldier, trying to catch his attention. The young violinist though, inside, had already promised himself he wouldn't have met the soldier's eyes again that day, he had lost himself in those enough, so he didn't turn.

"I just wish you'd stop avoiding me." Muttered John but was still able to make Sherlock break his promise.

And again, blue-golden eyes into light blue eyes, just like his violin strings intertwined with the hair of his bow.

He didn't ask why, he didn't ask questions. "Okay, John." Just those words came out of his mouth before walking out of the room, with a heart a little tight in his chest caused by the soldier's name said out loud.

_Sherlock's heart was beating in 'allegretto.'_

***

The next morning, Sherlock took his time to get ready, curling a few strands of hair with his finger, putting on his best suit and using his favorite cologne. And he only had to have breakfast.

It had been a month since he had first started skipping breakfast, but from that day forward he wanted to do the impossible not to avoid John, even if his heart liked playing games with him.Sherlock was scared of his heart. Too often it fought with his mind, more rational, more careful not to fall into life's traps. But the heart wanted what it wanted and Sherlock wanted to tear it off his chest so that he wouldn't feel those emotions that frightened him, like the one he felt when he was locked in that maze that John's eyes were.

Sherlock was scared of his heart, but that morning he'd given in and had walked down into the breakfast room.

Despite the early hour, the room was full of people just like every morning. The violinist wasn't used to that confusion, he had forgot how tedious people in the morning could be. His gaze got lost in the crowd, looking for that slicked back hair and that green uniform.

"Good morning, Sherlock." He could feel him behind him, even without turning around. "Good morning, John." He'd said quietly. The taller turned around slowly and the smaller one's smile hit him like a truck, like a knife in his chest. That smile hurt Sherlock because he knew he couldn't get enough of it.

John's thin lips curved even more, brightening his face while doing so. Sherlock tried to smile back, but his thoughts were too much, so he just curled one side of his mouth in a half smile that looked more like a grimace.

"Alright?" had asked the soldier, frowning.

"Yes." Had muttered Sherlock, trying to smile a bit better.

John had relaxed and smiled back. "I'm starving! Have you eaten yet?" he'd stretched, yawning.

Sherlock had softened at the sight, shaking his head afterwards.

"Okay, let's do it together then."

The soldier grabbed Sherlock's jacket, taking him towards the crowd, getting closer to the tables.

"Wait here." He'd whispered in the violinist ear, before disappearing among the people.

A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine at the words, but also because the soldier was particularly beautiful that morning. While he waited he'd stopped to think about how good he looked inside that uniform, how the sun made the hair he found attractive shine and later found himself thinking about those lips, red like an apple to bite, taste, suck.

John had appeared a few minutes later with a plate and two glasses in his hands. "Let's get out of here." He had suggested, smiling at Sherlock who had failed to agree right away. "C'mon, let's go!" John had repeated, pointing to the door with his head.

Sherlock had followed him, even though he wasn't hungry.

The Winter Palace was enormous, infinite. There were 1057 rooms, 1786 doors and 1945 windows, a maze of gold, mosaics and amazing paintings.

John seemed to have familiarized pretty good, probably knew all of the corridors. Sherlock, on the other hand, would never spend time outside his room except for giving Anastasija and Marija the violin lessons, so he didn't know where John was taking him.

They toured for a few minutes, John whistling something while Sherlock walked behind him in absolute silence.The soldier stopped suddenly and Sherlock almost bumped into him.

"Here we are." He'd whispered, opening the door of the room in front of which he had stopped. They walked inside a small, almost completely dark if there wasn't a small window on the wall, room. The furniture was covered in white sheet, the floor was marbled and dusty.

Sherlock grimaced, disapproving and John laughed in response.

"I'm sorry, I know it's not luxurious but it's one of the few that nobody uses." Explained the soldier, stretching his arm out. "Take this for a moment."

Sherlock grabbed the plate and watched as John opened the window to let some fresh air in, even if it was freezing. I'll bring my coat next time. He thought, taking for granted that there would have been a next time.

John took off one of the sheets, rising a cloud of dust that then revealed a white couch underneath. The soldier walked closer to Sherlock, taking him by the jacket again. "Come, let's sit." He'd invited.

The violinist followed him, sitting down next to him with the plate on his knees and the two glasses in his hands, unable to move. John slipped his hand through Sherlock's fingers, grabbing one of the glasses.

"I got us some black tea, because I don't know a single person that doesn't like it, so I thought you liked it too." He sipped the liquid.

Sherlock nodded, he would have fancied a coffee a bit more but he chose not to speak. He glanced down at the plate and studied its content. Two slices of white bread, black bread, a small jar of jam and a knife. He froze, knowing well enough that his stomach wasn't going to open.

John finished his black tea, saddening a bit for the violinist. He was tense, speechless due to the situation, definitely new for him. He took the plate off of his knees, leaning on the couch before standing up.Sherlock furrowed his brows, confused as John moved one of the other sheets, revealing an old violin case.

Sherlock's eyes brightened and a sincere smile appeared on his lips, making John's heart skip a bit at the sight of his dimples. The violinist stood up, interested in the case and what was probably inside it.

"I chose this room because I knew there was this thing here and I thought you'd enjoy it." Explained the fawn haired, picking the case up and handing it to Sherlock.

"Amazing." John chuckled, throwing his hands in the air. "That's the most I got out of you in months."

Sherlock gulped, putting down the object. He kept his eyes low, staring at the floor. "I apologize. It's not your fault."

Sherlock didn't like to justify himself, but he had to let John know it really wasn't his fault. It was his. He wasn't used to human contact, behaving 'human like' wasn't his specialty. He grew up that way, his brother Mycroft was the same. And it was also his fault if every time he saw John his walls would tumble down, his words would get stuck in his throat and he wanted to say something, anything. His heart wanted to rebel but he didn't let it.

"Why are you saying that?" asked John, surprised by the answer. He got closer, wanting to graze his cheek for the third time, but limited himself to graze the back of his now fist.

"Because I'm a mess with people."

Sherlock hinted a smile, gifting John one of his secrets. John gulped, taking the answer in as his fingers moved to his wrist, squeezing it gently. He had heard the little break in Sherlock's voice and he wanted to hug the boy of whom he only knew the name and profession.

"I'm a soldier, I'm good with messes." He'd said, holding him still.

Sherlock's cheeks flushed at the comment. "Breakfast?" he'd suggested, smiling at the soldier like he'd never done.

"Breakfast." Replied John, his eyes as bright as before.

_Sherlock's heart was beating in 'allegretto moderato'._

_"This is so boring, Vic."_

_"Hush, we both know who you think of when I speak of John and Sherlock." Victor was definitely talking about Hamish._

"Ok, I'll shut up. But stop saying these bulls-"

"Why are you blushing, then?"

**DECEMBER 1916, SAINT PETERSBURG.**

Sherlock and John had had breakfast together only a few times due to the guard shifts that only allowed it in very few occasions.

The routine was the same: the smaller one would fight with the crowd, grab food for both and then they'd run as soon as possible.

Their secret room was a witness of many talks: Sherlock had relaxed, not completely, but he told John a bit about himself. He told him he was twenty two, that he was born in Moscow where he had lived for almost sixteen years before becoming a quite known violinist. He had told him that his family was wealthy and that kept him away from a military future. He had ordinary parents and a brother named Mycroft with whom he didn't have the best relationship. He was used to bring gifts at home every time he came back so that his mother wouldn't complain or ask too many questions about his trips. He'd revealed that he didn't like cats and that the great duchess Anastasija put him in awe.

Of John he had learned that he was twenty three, at sixteen he was half-forced half-not to enroll in the army and that he was sent to war at eighteen. "The war will never end, it's always been here and it always will be." He had said, eyes absent. Sherlock had found out that John wasn't at all close to his family and that he had a thing for dangerous situations. He'd come to know that he hated soups, that he would have loved to try the western food and that when he saddened his eyes would become dark blue.

Sherlock had only known three colors: black, white and brown. Like his violin, of course, but also like the snow which kept on falling, the brown trees covered by it. The white inside the Winter Palace, covering the gardens.

Sherlock didn't understand black. Luckily his violin had only a few things black, chin rest included. And he did know how that worked. People weren't going to be affected by it.

But the black inside him, Sherlock couldn't get a handle of it. His soul, if he had one, was a puzzle made of fears, worries and facts nobody wanted to know. He would have loved to get rid of it, but the coldness around him was too much.

He didn't trust people with his thoughts, secrets and whatnot. Somehow inside his black he felt safe.

But since John had come into his life, something was changing. The colors weren't brown, black and white anymore, but so many more colors, good and bad, that he had never really cared to notice.

There was that light-blue for instance. A bright blue, gorgeous that lightened up when it was reflected in the snow. And he'd begun to love that color, a bit because he felt peaceful with it, a bit because it was the soldier's eye colour.

There was that dark green, sadder than the previous, it reminded Sherlock of the military uniform and with that the war. The war was dark green, like the many soldiers with frightened hearts held at gun point. Dark green like those leaves stained by the blood of men who were dying for an ideal that wasn't theirs. Dark green like those plains on the maps he once saw inside the tsar's room that represented the enemy lands.

There was that pale pink of John's skin. Delicate, soft pink that Sherlock would have wanted to touch without stopping, running his hands over every single pink limb of the other guy. Grazing lightly or maybe also pressing down, to mark on it invisibly. He would have wanted to try it, but that was the part of him he'd kept hidden in the back of his mind. With his lips, he would have wanted to taste every single detail of it, like people do with the most fine dishes.

Sherlock, thanks to John, had learned to know many colors.

And yet there was one who he tried to keep the distance from.

Red.

Red like the blood of thousands of Russian history, of wars and useless battles which had taken millions of lives. Red like the explosions of hand-bombs, the screams of the soldiers and of the mothers at home once they'd learnt their kids had died.

Red like that entity that, according to the tsar, was damaging the empire: the communism.

Red like John's lips, to kiss and bite up to exhaustion, and again sleeping on those lips, dreaming on and maybe waking up with his taste inside his own and bones, like the best of poisons.

And Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to let those lips bite the black out of him.

***

In a cold, December night, Sherlock was wide awake. He couldn't sleep.

The young man sat up from his bed, grasping at the sheets with his hands. He needed a walk and a glass of water.

He got up, put on a vest over his warm pajama and slid his feet inside his slippers, then walked out. At that time the Palace was almost deserted. A few servants were awake, a few guards here and there but nobody else. Sherlock wanted to go to the kitchen, maybe opt for a warm tea, but about halfway he heard his name being called.

"Sherlock!" The voice repeated, making the violinist turn. At the end of the long corridor there was Anastasija and Marija's room. That night, John was guarding.

"What are you doing awake?" he asked, lowering his voice not to wake anyone up. Sherlock walked closer to the soldier, sliding his slippers not to make any noise.

"Bad night." He said, running a hand through his curls.

_"Again a tormented, sleepless night: I feel this feeling-"_ started to quote John, before being interrupted by Sherlock's low baritone, almost whispering. _"I, who laughed at the lovers heartache. What you laugh at is eventually what you serve."_ Finished the violinist.

"I like it when you get Tolstoj's quotes." Muttered John, his gaze at the window in front of him. His uniform was tight around his waist and the usual, black boots made him even more beautiful, thought Sherlock taken aback by the sight.

He probably had already been taken aback by the lovers quote itself, on sleepless nights, tormented by the figure you love and that lives in your mind and dreams.

Sherlock had never met love.

He'd always observed it from the outside, being careful not to walk too close and get burned. He'd seen so many people in love that it all wasn't really affecting him anymore. They were everywhere, dancing on his music, kissing in secret at the parties he was playing at, hugging at his concerts.

But inside he could feel something change. Why else would a love quote from Tolstoj affect him that much?

Maybe it was just John's voice.

"Is your sleepless and tormented night caused by a lover's heartache?" asked John after a few seconds of silence. He sat on the ground, against the great duchesses door, with a darker than usual gaze, despite the light of the moon that was being filtered through the window.

Sherlock stood still. "Do you have someone? Someone who loves you, I mean.. someone who's waiting for you at home?" continued the soldier, without looking at him in the eyes, finding his pale hands much more interesting.

Sherlock stopped breathing at the words, or better, stopped breathing at the tone of which they had been spoken with. Was John disappointed? Sherlock wasn't sure. But somewhere in his heart he didn't want to be mistaken, so he sat down next to him.

Both with their back against the door, eyes fixed on the big window in front of them. The Russian night could have been framed, the starts appeared like a colored stain that made the black canvas a wonder.

One next to each other, both wanting to reach the stars. Though they had to settle for their hands close on the ground, not touching.

"I have my family." Replied Sherlock, thinking carefully about his next words. "Nobody else, it's not really my area of expertise." He added.

John leaned his head on the door, avoiding the eyes of the taller man next to him. His hand was speaking for him: it'd moved automatically towards Sherlock's still on the floor and it'd found his long violinist fingers, caressing them slowly with his fingertips. He grazed all five of them, wanting to know the texture before departing from that pleasant contact.

Sherlock didn't move his hand, not even of half a millimeter. He had let John touch him, warming his cold fingers. "How about you?" he asked, bringing his knees under his chin. He didn't dare to look at John either. If John had responded positively he would have had to bury the part of him that was surfacing again, maybe going to bed and never talking to him again. But if he'd responded negatively, that would have complicated things even more.

"When you're a soldier, when you go to war.. you can't have somebody, Sherlock." John replied, bittersweet and with the saddest smile he'd ever seen.

The violinist shut his mind, his thoughts and his voices. For the first time in his life he let his instinct guide him. The sad smile of John had won over everything going on inside him.

So, turning to face him, he intertwined his fingers with the soldier's.

John let him do it, he let Sherlock's thumb caress him, as he showed him a brighter smile.

"Wonderful moonlit night; the screams of the night, the crowd, the dust don't spoil the beauty; a humid clearing, light under the moon, where frogs and crickets sing, and something pulls you there; but you get there and something else will pull you even further. The beauty of nature doesn't arouse pleasure in me, but something like a sweet ache." Quoted Sherlock, losing himself in the eyes of the soldier.

With the free hand, John grazed his cheek, as it had become a habit by then. "What kept you awake?" he asked in a whisper.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the contact, letting John take care of his skin like nobody had ever done before.

"The war." He replied, a few seconds had passed. "I keep thinking about what's outside of these walls, how war is not just a thought for you but a reality."

Sherlock's heart had lightened a slight bit after his confession. He'd revealed him one of his fears and implicitly also the fear of losing the soldier with the bright blue eyes.

He shivered at the thought and John must have noticed, because in the next instant he brought close to his lips the back of Sherlock's hand, observing it as if it was the most precious thing. "Don't." he mumbled, his voice lower than ever which made Sherlock start even more. The soldier leaned his mouth on the cold skin of the violinist, filling it with delicate kisses. "Don't tremble." He repeated in between kisses.

Sherlock was overwhelmed by emotions he didn't think were possible for him to feel. Those touches burned his skin like non-fading marks, as his breath stopped for the second time that night, his heart racing up.

As Sherlock enjoyed the feeling of having John's lips on him, a noise from the room behind him broke the silence. He withdrew his hand and jumped up. "They may be awake, I have to go." He'd said without meeting his eyes, talking about the great duchesses.

John stood up as well, a bit disappointed by the sudden movements of the taller one. "Goodnight, Sherlock." He whispered, but he'd already walked too far to hear him.

The violinist decided it was best to try and sleep. He was a bit more tired than before.

Sherlock's heart was beating 'allegramente'.

***

Anastasija Nikolaevna Romanova had always been a jealous girl. She didn't have jewels to be jealous of and she wasn't either jealous of her toys.

She was jealous of people.

She was jealous of her little brother Aleksej, because everyone at the Palace wanted to take care of him. She was bothered by it because she wanted to be the one to take care of her only brother, who was even ill.

She was jealous of her father, too. That jealous that when new people would come in, she'd do everything in her power to squeeze her father to her, to mark the territory.

So, when her sister Marija had said, out of nowhere "John and Sherlock were speaking in front of our room last night." With a smile, Anastasija had learned that she would have never healed from her jealousy.

John was her bodyguard and the more the days passed, the more she was growing to care for him. Aleksej was her only brother, but since the soldier had come into her life, she'd seen him as her failed older brother. She had older sisters, but they were too busy being adults to play with Anya.

With John it was different, he was forced to spend time with her and when they were together they'd speak of everything they could think of. From the things they loved to do, the people at court, who they liked and who they didn't.

She had already noticed something between John and Sherlock. She had noticed the looks once her lessons would finish and the violinist walked out of the room, smiling at the soldier who was waiting outside. She had noticed how John's eyes would brighten up when, by accident, the British name would come up that, said by the same soldier, had poetry in it.

She couldn't bear the thought of someone taking her guard away, her new friend and almost brother-like figure. The hatred for Sherlock grew immensely, despite she had already went there with his eyes. See, John's eyes were of a different blue, Sherlock's were lighter.. closer to hers and her mothers. And the thought of John having fallen for those eyes was driving her crazy.

She then decided to do something about it.

**JANUARY 5TH 1915, SAINT PETERSBURG.**

You see William, if something mattered more to the Russians than war were traditions. They could have taken everything away from them, the house, clothes, everything. But not their culture.

That's why in January 1917, despite the people had started to freak out and worry, Christmas was still celebrated.

The Winter Palace had become something stunning. Little Anastasija was proud of how the servants had decorated it. Gold, green and red were the main colors.

But the thing that still surprised everyone was the big, high Christmas tree in the ball room. His majesty was the symbol of the power of the tsar of Russia that, alas, was destined to burn out forever in just a few weeks.

Anastasija the 5th of January, two days before Christmas, had already positioned her gifts for her family under that very tree.

She had always loved Christmas, that was the only time where her whole family would be together. The only day where the cold and detached Aleksandra would smile.

The joy for Christmas of little Anastasija were so immense, that she had stopped thinking about anything, the war, her brother and even John and Sherlock. Or so she thought until the soldier, the 5th of January, had asked "Why don't we go out and build a snowman? Sherlock's coming, too."

Maybe for the first time ever in her life, her jealousy overcame her joy.

***

Sherlock didn't like Christmas.

In those cold days, Sherlock would walk around like a ghost. He wouldn't speak to anyone, keep his eyes low. During his lessons, he wouldn't show any resentment to Anya's lack of improvement, nor showed any kind of excitement if Marija did improve. With John he hadn't really spoken, just a few glances here and there.

The morning of the 5th January, though, he'd stumbled upon him, due to his eyes looking at the ground.

"Sorr-" he muttered, before meeting those blue eyes he'd missed. A maze of sweet memories, the soldier's lips on his skin, his smile, his fawn hair in the moonlight. "John!" he exclaimed.

"Good morning, violinist." Said the smaller one, smiling widely and blocking his wrist with his hand, so that he wouldn't walk away. "How are you?"

"Good." He responded too quickly, as the limb where John's fingers were was slowly catching fire. The soldier frowned, put himself on tiptoes and leaned his forehead against the violinist's.

"Your eyes are telling me otherwise." He affirmed, moving his hands around the waist of the man, a bit to keep balance and a bit to actually hug him.

Sherlock's breath hitched, reason why he pushed him away with all of the strength he had in him."You don't know my eyes." He stepped back, avoiding the soldier's gaze who, upset by the man's reaction, had lost his smile.

"You're the one who doesn't let me."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond to that statement. He'd got that John, in some way, wanted to deepen the friendship born by casualty, but inside he knew that if he didn't unlock himself, the man wouldeventually give up.

Was that what Sherlock wanted? He wasn't sure. He knew he was fond of the soldier, his smell, the touch of his lips on his skin, but he was a bit taken aback by that human contact he knew nothing about. He was a little frightened of hurting him with his complicated personality, with his mental blockages, his heart as cold as ice. And he couldn't let himself hurt John in any way, whom had become his only source of light in such dark and moody times.

"I was going to Anya to ask her to come out and play with snow. Wanna come?" The soldier interrupted the violinist's thinking process that, surprised by the request, nodded weakly."I'll wait for you at the entrance." Was the last thing he heard before turning around to get his coat.

***

Both Anastasija and John were wearing the heaviest of coats, noticed Sherlock as soon as he arrived at the entrance of the Palace. John was smiling, while the girl had a pronounced frown. He sighed, the conversation he had before with John had saddened him and the look full of hate that Anya was wearing wasn't helping at all. But he still decided to go out with them.

The view that met Sherlock's eyes was breath taking: he hadn't got the chance to walk out of the palace during those days, more so because it was very dangerous. The naked trees were covered in snow and the cold overwhelmed his bones, he didn't mind it. Little snowflakes were falling from the dark, Russian sky, but despite all that, Sherlock thought the gardens were one of the most beautiful places he'd ever seen.

Anastasija was already immersed in that white coat. She went running around, leaving the footprints of those small boots, taking snow in her hands, just to throw it in the air again.

"Are you cold?" walked closer John. Sherlock shook his head, not completely lying. He didn't really want to talk, so he turned his coat collar up and buried his chin inside the scarf.

John, once again saddened by his behavior, walked away, going to play with little Anya.

Sherlock sat on a bench, observing them in silence. Anastasija was wearing a white coat, almost camouflaging with the snow if it weren't for her red hair. She was so happy in that moment that even Sherlock's heart warmed at the sight.

John didn't seem happy. The smile he had was a of kindness in regards of Anastasija. Sherlock wondered if it was his fault. He wished John would always smile, because he was his light and he had to melt the snow out of him, but thinking that all of that was because of him made him frown. He had to choose between hurting him by staying away or hurting him by being close, with all of his being and fears. One way or another he would have hurt him, he was sure. Though for that day, he chose to hurt him by walking up to the snowman, gifting the soldier with not only a dimpled smile but also a "can I help you?"

Little Anya scoffed, but Sherlock didn't care because John's laugh had filled his ears. "Of course, violinist." The taller man, then, started picking up as much snow as he could, forming the belly of the snowman. It took a lot of time to build it, mostly because Anastasija had decided to destroy every body part that Sherlock created, a bit because John had stopped building, too busy throwing snow balls to the man and finding every single excuse to touch his hand.

Sherlock hadn't laughed like that in a long time. He'd forgotten the sound of it, how the pain in the corners of the mouth felt. All three had fun in a never ending snow war, making them forget the real war outside the doors of the Winter Palace, maybe making them forget the inside ones with it.

Destiny wanted to play its part as well, letting Sherlock slip in a non cute way and John take advantage of it, kneeling down next to him and cupping his face with his hands, not caring about Anastasija watching.

"Are you okay?" had asked the soldier, looking more at the lips of the man below him than his eyes. Sherlock moved his head a bit, decreasing the distance between those two mouths that wanted each other so much but were too shy to confess their desire.

"I'm sorry if I don't let you know my eyes." said the violinist, eyes sincere. "I'm sorry I'm this way." He added, tone apologetic.

"I'm okay with that. It only means that it will take me a little more time than usual." The soldier smiled, his voice of the low that drove Sherlock crazy, before dragging him away by the great duchess who was sending both hate looks so intense that he thought he'd die. He could have died, he didn't care. John's eyes were shining again and it was all that mattered.

_Sherlock's heart was beating in 'vivace'._

**JANUARY 7th 1917, SAINT PETERSBURG.**

Christmas dinner was a bit less abundant than usual, had noticed the great duchess. They were in war times and despite the infinite riches of the tsar, there was crisis. But everything was good, the servants had done a good job.

The exchange of gifts was an intimate thing, the Romanov family would reunite once a year in the tsar's study, showing they were a real family. That's why when it was time to go to bed, little Anastsija was happy.

Anything else could have been said about Sherlock that after that day out, he had the luck to have caught a cold and had been forced to stay in bed for two days, Christmas day as well. The emptiness of his stomach, that evening, had decided to call for help so, with a vest wrapped around him, Sherlock got up.

But the road to the kitchen was the same as usual, so he was forced to walk past the great duchesses's room. The door was open just slightly and Sherlock was a little surprised when John wasn't standing in front of it, without hesitation he sniffed and peeked inside.

To lighten the room there was a small chandelier. Marija was already asleep. In the other bed, Anya was leaning against the headboard, while with a hand she was holding John's who was sitting next to her. "Did you have fun today?" asked the soldier.

"So much! Mother has even gifted me one of her necklaces!"

"I'm happy for you then, but you're not done receiving gifts." John pulled something out of his pocket and Sherlock couldn't see what it was until Anastasija took it in her hands, revealing the most beautiful carillon Sherlock had ever seen.

It was small, golden and green just like the Palace's colors.

"It's beautiful." Whispered Anya, studying it.

"Turn the key."

As soon as the great duchess obeyed, the carillon opened up revealing two small figures that represented the tsar Nikolaj and the tsarina Aleksandra, dancing on a melody that Sherlock knew too well. But it was John, instead, who started singing over that symphony.

_Dancing bears, painted wings._

_Things I almost remember,_

_And a song, someone sings._

_Once upon a December._

_Someone holds me safe and warm._

_Horses prance through a silver storm._

_Figures dancing gracefully,_

_Across my memory._

But he couldn't even finish off the melody that Anastasija had already fallen asleep. He took the carillon away from her hands, closing it and interrupting the song. He leaned it on the nightstand and, before going away, kissed the forehead of the great duchess.

Sherlock waited patiently.

"I know that song." He whispered as soon as he saw him appear. John jumped slightly, but relaxed right after, showing the moon from the same window of a few months prior, his smile. "My mother used to sing it to me when I was younger." Added the violinist.

"Can you wait for me in front of our room? I have to do something, I'll be right there."

The wait didn't last long, John came back to Sherlock in five minutes, panting. "Sorry, I had to find a substitute for the girls."

"You wanted to tell me something?" asked the curly haired, a bit anxious.

John didn't reply, but he took his hand, touching his fingers first to ask for permission, in a light and delicate way, and when he saw the other didn't pull back, intertwined their hands together in a strong grip. "Do you trust me?" the soldier asked, his eyes shining and his teeth between his lips.

"No." Sherlock replied, even if deep down the answer was another. John chuckled as he opened the door to their room. It was all dark so he couldn't see anything. He had to leave the smaller one's hand because he'd gotten closer to the only chandelier in sight, lighting the candles.

Sherlock froze on the spot once the light was able to enlighten everything. The white sheets had disappeared, dust too. John had walked closer to the violin case, taking the instrument out. Sherlock immediately noticed the difference of it and raised an eyebrow, questioning the soldier.

"A mate of mine knew something about music so I made him fix it. You can play whenever you want, now."

Sherlock didn't care at all about the violin in that moment. He moved his feet closer to the man in front of him and wrapped his hands around his neck, resting his chin on the top of his head.

It was the first time he'd hugged him and the first time he'd actually felt good. Everything John had done for him was incredible, from the cleaning to fixing his violin. He would have never expected anyone to ever do something so nice for him. John had been so sweet to him, in his arms all his fears had disappeared, letting a soft symphony warm his heart.

The smaller stood still for a moment, before burying his face in the taller man's chest, tightening the grip.

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered, not looking at him in the eyes. John ran a hand through his curls, playing with a few of them with his fingers.

"I wanted to bring the mistletoe in, too." John revealed, making Sherlock's heart skip a beat. He pulled away, releasing the pressure from the other man's body. But John was quicker and pulled him back in with a chuckle.

"I was joking." He added, patting his back gently.

"I'm an idiot." Affirmed Sherlock, sighing.

"I just want to spend some time with you, I don't want to force you into things you don't want."

Sherlock then pulled just a bit away, to look at him in the eyes. Yes, he did want the mistletoe to be above them, just to have a simple justification to show his fears. His cold hand moved closer to the soldier's face, cupping a cheek with his fingers, studying his skin with his thumb.

He ducked his head a little bit lower, bringing their faces as close as they'd ever been. Their breaths had become one, Sherlock's hands were tight around John's arms as if he was about to sink and those were his anchor, and his heart was beating so fast he thought a heart attack was bound to happen.

As usual destiny wasn't on his side, as he was forced to turn and sneeze.

John laughed, as Sherlock sniffed and wiped his teary eyes with his hand. "That's not funny." He'd said, frowning like a child.

"Sleep with me." Had asked John, once the laughing stopped. The violinist didn't respond, but he let himself being dragged on the couch.

Laying both down under a single blanket, just their breaths were filling the room. John was, believe it or not, spooning Sherlock and he felt so safe that he didn't want to let go.

"I can't sleep." The curly haired pronounced, too tense to sleep. Then John did the most beautiful thing of the evening: he sang for him.

_Someone holds me safe and warm._

_Horses prance through a silver storm._

_Figures dancing gracefully,_

_Across my memory._

_Far away, long ago._

_Glowing dim as an ember.._

_Things my heart used to know,_

_Things it yearns to remember._

_And a song,_

_Someone sings._

_Once upon a December._

The violinist, with the happiest of smile and the beautiful voice of John, fell asleep.

_Sherlock's heart beat in 'vivo'._

_"Then Lenin came." William suggested, playing with his lower lip._

"Mh, not yet. The revolutions of the people begin and so John and Sherlock start to see each other less and less, because the soldier is always busy with the guard shifts." Victor explained, shifting in his chair. He loved telling that story, it was his favorite. And William's expressions were priceless.

"In February the tsar abdicates. That I remember."

"Yes, he does. And his brother Mikhail doesn't want to take his place, so it all shifts to a provisory government."

**FEBRUARY 1917, SAINT PETERSBURG.**

"Do you ever just want to feel different, Sherlock?" had a night asked the soldier, tightening his grip around the other man. They were sitting on the kitchen floor, hugged to one another, hiding like thieves. John had denied himself the few hours of sleep he was given just to be with Sherlock and that made the violinist feel guilty, even if he loved being there in his arms.

"Always." Had whispered back. The hugs were the only thing that had been consistent. Since the tsar had abdicated, the Winter Palace had become depressed. They knew that the tsarist's empire was close to the end and that Lenin, once he'd come back to Russia, would have taken everything. Nikolaj knew as well as the tsarina whose eyes had become even colder.

All the great duchesses knew, they had built an indoor hospital to cure the war's victims, as much as they could.

John and Sherlock knew, too. Both dreamt about places far away from there, under the sun hand in hand, away from responsibilities. But going out of the Palace was far too dangerous to dream on any kind of romantic escape.

"How would you want to be?" Asked again John, playing with his hair and squeezing his hand with his free one.

"With less ice." Sherlock replied right away then received a tender kiss on his forehead. "Yourself?" he'd asked, curious to learn the answer. John didn't reply at all. He stood silent for long seconds, but it felt like years. "You never tell me how you feel." He'd added again, half accusing him.

John pulled away slightly, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" he'd asked back.

Sherlock moved away from him, unlocking their fingers and answering the soldier's question. "John I know I'm opening up really slow with you, but you're not even trying to do the same." He'd explained. "You're always smiling, but I know that something's troubling you, why don't you want to talk to me about it?"

His hand moved closer to the smaller one's cheek, but John was quicker and jumped up. "No, I don't want to talk about it." His tone cold, causing the taller to frown and mutter a 'why'.

"Because you have no idea what I've been through! You know nothing about my past so you can't assume that I can talk to you about it like it's an easy thing."

For the first time Sherlock could hear John's voice break, as if he was on the verge of crying.

"I'm not forcing you to tell me anything, John!" He shouted, not caring of getting caught. "But if you cared a little, you'd trust me." He added, focusing his gaze on the ground building up another wall just a little.

"You don't get it, Sherlock." The smaller man affirmed, so quietly that the only thing Sherlock could hear was the hate in his voice. John left him there with those words.

_Sherlock's heart wasn't beating._

**MARCH 1917, SAINT PETERSBURG.**

It had been two weeks since Anastasija last saw Sherlock. A servant had told her that the violinist was sick, and that the lessons would have been resumed only after the man had recovered. But the girl wasn't stupid and when she noticed that John was sadder each day, she linked the two things.

She should have been happy about it, but seeing her loving John in that state made her feel sad. She'd hug him often and he had stopped exchanging it after a few times. She smiled at him a lot, but it seemed like he had forgotten how to. And that made her feel even worse than how John was feeling.

But the situation in Saint Petersburg was even worse, so Anastasija didn't have that much time to dwell over her soldier and her violinist.

Sherlock knew nothing about it all. The only thing he'd seen were the sheets of his bed and the window of his room. He'd locked himself inside. Spent a lot of time in his mind palace. He'd come to the conclusion that everything he thought was true about John was actually a lie. He had been able to hurt him with words, and that was killing him.

During his trips to his mind palace, he'd realized he'd spent too much time denying something so obvious. So, after almost a week of pushing away the thought and every possibility of his conclusion being true, he'd stopped fighting it and gave in.

He was in love with John.

When he got to the Palace, he'd surely never thought of falling in love with anyone. But then John had arrived, with his smile and those bright eyes that had tumbled down every single wall that Sherlock had built over the years. He was slowly starting to let go, letting himself being held.

He missed John. He missed his hands, his smell, the beautiful laugh that had found its way around his heart, the most beautiful symphony. But now everything was gone and Sherlock had been trying to forget him in every way, though they did live under the same roof.

In a quiet morning of March, the usual servant that Sherlock had paid to bring him food, walked inside the room with a tray full of it, enough to make him live through the day. "Thank you, Molly." He'd told her, hinting a smile. Before she was able to close the door behind her, a hand had blocked it. And Sherlock could recognize that hand everywhere.

John walked through the door, leaving Molly with her mouth open, shocked, before closing the door behind her.

"What do you want, John?" Asked Sherlock, sitting on his bed and avoiding his gaze. He didn't want to look at him, he'd tried so hard to fade the image of him off of his mind and he couldn't allow himself to go through that again.

"I want to talk to you." John replied, walking closer to the man, boots stomping on the ground lightly. "Sherlock, you don't look well."

Sherlock couldn't have agreed more. He'd lost weight over those two weeks, the bags under his eyes were incredibly pronounced, he'd even have a hint of a beard.

"I don't want to talk to you." Sherlock said, flatly. John's eyes widened a little, but decided to kneel down in front of him either way, taking his hand. "Please." The soldier had begged, a prayer Sherlock would have never listened to. 

"Go away." Continued Sherlock, pushing the hand off of his and standing up. "I don't ever want to talk to you again. I'd love it if I were able not to see you either but inside this Palace it's quite the mission."

"Sherlock..." the soldier muttered, searching for the other's gaze. When he noticed the man wasn't keen on moving away from the window he sighed and walked out, not giving up just yet.

When the door had loudly closed behind him, Sherlock turned.

**APRIL 1917, SAINT PETERSBURG.**

Sherlock, after three weeks of hiatus, had started teaching again. But it was as if he wasn't there. His body was there with little Anya, teaching her chords she would have never learned but his mind was behind that door where John was standing. They had stopped greeting each other. Sherlock was good at walking away without looking at him.

Anya had noticed everything, but she had limited herself to just that. One day, in John's arms, she had let herself ask him if he missed Sherlock.

The man had looked at her surprised but was forced to say "why do you ask? Sherlock and I don't have any sort of relationship beside the greetings."

Even Anastasija knew it was a lie. Everyone in the Palace knew about it, but no one would speak. But it was fine, in the end she would have had John all for herself. And while she was hugging him something that she had decided not to tell him because it might have hurt him, slipped off her mouth.

"Sherlock's leaving." She'd said without thinking,a secret that was supposed to stay within her. A moment later Anastasija was left alone in her room.

***

Sherlock was packing his suitcase in that exact moment. He'd decided to leave a few days before, not wanting too see John not even by accident.

He didn't know where he was going to go but he didn't care.

John didn't need any servants to let him in that day, he didn't even knock. He just leaned on the doorstep with his hands behind his back. "You can't leave." Sherlock had heard him come, he always did. He walked funny, and he'd learned his steps by heart.

"Since when are you in control of my life?" He asked, still packing his clothes.

"You can't leave the Palace. There's war outside, don't you get it?"

John had walked inside the room and was now standing in front of the other boy who just didn't flinch. "Yeah, apparently I'm good at not getting things." added Sherlock, smiling bitterly at John.

In that moment John couldn't hold it anymore. He started to unbutton the jacket of his uniform, slowly, with a neutral and calm expression. Sherlock gulped, alarmed. "What uh— what are you doing?" John didn't respond, but slid his white shirt off his head, revealing his naked torso underneath.

At the height of his left shoulder he had the ugliest scar Sherlock had ever seen. It had become one with the pale skin of the soldier, destroying it. At one point he had to look away."John I.." he called, standing still.

"You see why I can't tell you what I've been through?" He asked, sitting down on the curly haired's bed. "I don't want to share this type of pain with you. War is too big for everybody. Even for me and I'm a soldier."

John had clenched his fists and his eyes were closed. It took Sherlock a split of a second to kneel in front of him and hug him tight.

"Please don't leave." John begged at one point, locking his eyes with Sherlock's. The violinist shook his head. "I wanted to leave because I thought I'd hurt you and I didn't want to do that anymore." Sherlock explained, letting his heart speak for him. "Everything I say or do hurts people and I don't want to do that to you."

"We're two idiots." John smiled, moving his hand to cup Sherlock's cheek. It'd become their thing.

Sherlock smiled back at the statement, mentally agreeing. He leaned his forehead against John's. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You're not hurting me and you won't hurt me. You're one of the best people that I have ever known, you've brought happiness into my life and healed wounds I thought weren't possible to heal so no, don't apologize." He chocked slightly at the last sentence and Sherlock squeezed him. He made him lay down, take off his boots and got him under the covers.

They stayed silent for minutes, loving it. Both studying each other's faces, Sherlock's gaze moving a bit lower than that. John would kiss his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his dimples when he tickled him, and he felt at peace.

Sherlock's fingers were grazing John's chest, pretending to play an invisible violin, chord after chord, while John would untie his curls, wrapping them in his finger. "Will it hurt if I touch it?" Sherlock asked, moving his fingers closer to the wound. The soldier shook his head. "Not anymore."

Sherlock still decided to move his fingers slowly, but seeing no sign of pain once he'd touched it, he continued. His thumb studying as much of it as it could, then he leaned his head on John's chest, wanting to come to know in what musical rhythm his heart was beating. He then moved a little higher, his curls tickling the wound and his lips kissing it tenderly.

_John and Sherlock's hearts were beating in 'vivacissimo'._

**MAY 1917, SAINT PETERSBURG**

May went by quiet calmly. With Lenin's arrival the tsar's power was close to zero, but at the Palace everyone tried to go on with their lives as if nothing was happening.

Anastasija was worried about her father's health. She hadn't seen him come out of his study for days, he hadn't even eaten with them. The tsarina, on the other hand, had her usual mask on, although she might have been the one who had been suffering the most, worried about her kids.

The little great duchess would have wanted to talk to somebody about all of it, but that somebody was far from her, too busy spending time with her violinist. Jealousy came back at the beginning of spring. Despite her effort of trying to keep them apart just so she could talk to John for a bit, were really rare the times she actually succeeded.

She would have rather seen Sherlock leave the month before. But she didn't know what happened that made him change his mind, and the suspicion that John had something to do with it hurt her. At least now the soldier was smiling.

War outside and spring inside. That's how Sherlock and John would have called that time. They weren't seeing each other that much, mainly because John was constantly busy, but the little time they spent together was worth it more than all of the tsar's riches.

"But they haven't even made out yet!!" William exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

"Just shut up and listen." Victor scolded him, going back to the story.

Their room and even Sherlock's had become witnesses of stolen caresses, little instants of love, before both of them would go back to what they were called to do. John had started opening up more. He'd started telling Sherlockhis war stories, sometimes a few tears would run down his cheeks, sometimes his eyes were empty like a chasm. Sherlock would just listen, drying his tears with his thumb and occasionally with his lips.

The violinist had even stopped worrying physically. He didn't mind talking the first step if he wanted a hug or a caress. He'd become more open and John was happy about it, even though he would have wanted something more. But he was willing to wait for as long as Sherlock needed.

The soldier wasn't that wealthy, but that day he'd decided to pay the servant Molly to tell everyone he was sick and that with that he wouldn't have been able to guard the girls that day.

As a substitute was placed in front of the great duchesses's room, John was sneaking inside Sherlock's where said man was still sleeping. He slid under the covers and wrapped his arms around the taller man's waist, waking him up with some temple kisses. "Am I dreaming?" Sherlock mumbled, his voice hoarse and a smile upon his face.

John chuckled, biting the skin of his neck playfully, waking him up. "Get up, sleepyhead." He said, standing up and opening the window. Sherlock was forced to open his eyes as well at the sudden light in the room, shivering at the cold air and at the bite.

"Aren't you supposed to guard today?" had asked the curly-haired man, yawning and stretching.

"Molly covered for me, she's a saint." John explained, searching the drawers as if that was his room. He threw him a jumper and a pair of pants. "What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, confused and regretting taking that jumper out of his suitcase.

"I'm taking you out. I mean in out in the gardens." He cleared, as going outside the Palace wasn't even discussable. "I'll wait for you."

Sherlock watched him leave, jumping up to dress more quickly. He was curious to know what the soldier had planned, so he washed up and walked out of his room.

Once in the hall, John had grabbed his hand and had started running, taking turns Sherlock had never done before then. "John, wait!" he shouted, already panting. John stopped suddenly, changing direction and entering into a room close to them, pushing Sherlock against the door and motioning him to keep quiet. The violinist was chuckling lightly, finding the man amusing.

"I can't be seen around, I'm technically ill." He explained, leaning both of his hands between Sherlock's head, on the wooden door.

Sherlock enjoyed those instants as best he could, he got a chance to study him better. John's face was focused on hearing the footsteps that were slowly getting near. His narrowed eyes didn't let Sherlock distinguish their color, but he loved them anyway.

Then his attention moved to his lips, that in that moment were being tortured by the man's teeth. He wanted to kiss him so bad that he had leaned in without thinking, eyes half closed and mouth already slight open. But John was too much into not being caught that wasn't even aware of Sherlock's closeness. He dragged him out of the room once the noise was gone, taking him in a quiet and hidden spot in one of the gardens.

Russian spring wouldn't begin until May, having a few degrees above the zero. Sherlock turned his coat collar up, a little upset for a failed attempt at a kiss with John. He really wanted to do it, so he decided to try again during the course of the day.

Under a still naked tree, there was a blanket with a basket on top Sherlock deduced was full of food. He smiled happily, days with John were always a surprise. So romantic Sherlock thought he was dreaming.

They ate and talked cheerfully, talking about the weather, the people inside the Palace, their childhood memories and the books they'd read. And the more John talked with those pink lips the more Sherlock imagined himself biting them, making them his. "I want to kiss you." Said the taller man at one point, dazed at the sight of them. He watched as those lips curved upwards, making his do the same. "I'm not going to stop you." The soldier replied, excited. "No." Sherlock shook his head. "I mean, not like this. I wanted to take you by surprise to show you I was ready." He'd confessed, rubbing his face with his hands.

John chuckled, moving closer to the other and taking his hands in his. "Okay then let's do this: I'll pretend to talk about the weather or something else, and when I turn to look at you, you'll suddenly kiss me. Does it sound good?"

And Sherlock kissed him then, taking him really by surprise. He'd pressed his lips against the soldier's, showing him just how much he wanted him. He'd tasted those lips, breathing in their softness and taste. John stood still for a moment, taking in what was happening, but was steadily ready to lock his fingers inside his curls, pulling him closer. Sherlock opened his mouth in response, giving access to John's tongue which was already on his lips.

The violinist pulled away and John felt colder than usual, but once he realized that Sherlock had pulled away just to position himself between his legs, his heart warmed up again. That way it was easier for him to hug the violinist, that had already met with his lips again, in a much deepened kiss.

Their hearts were beating loud as both got to know each other's mouths, trying to breathe and wanting to deepen the kiss even more.

John was the first to pull away, leaning their foreheads together, catching their breath. John looked gorgeous with his cheeks flushed and his pupils dilated, Sherlock thought there was nothing in the world more right than their relationship.

"I waited for so long for something so beautiful." He'd said, cupping John's cheeks. "I'm such an idiot."

John chuckled quietly, bringing their lips together again. "Don't worry. We have a whole lifetime ahead of us."

_John and Sherlock's hearts were beating in 'allegrissimo'._

**SEPTEMBER 1917, SAINT PETERSBURG.**

Sherlock and John had spent all summer kissing everywhere. They'd kiss right after they woke up if they had slept together, they'd kiss before going to bed if they couldn't sleep together. They'd kiss when John dragged him in dark and empty rooms because he'd missed him, they'd kiss after Anastasija's violin lesson while said girl would run to get John some food. Sherlock's bowed-lips had become like a second home to John and he just couldn't get enough. They had tried to go further than kisses, mainly because the more time passed the more their kisses had grown messier and passionate with hands roaming everywhere in each other's bodies.

During an August evening in Sherlock's room, John had even been able to take off the man's shirt leaving his chest naked for him to nibble, kiss and suck at. His hands had started running down, his fingers playing with the hem of the other's pants.

"Wait" had said Sherlock, seeing John's fingers freeze. "I have never done.." he'd spoken quietly, trying to let the soldier understand that when he'd said that relationships weren't his area, he'd meant it. John had kissed him softly, reassuring him. "Do you trust me?" He'd asked him, locking his fingers around the man's chin. Sherlock had just nodded, changing the answer to a question he'd already been asked months before. John had smiled, pecked his lips once again and moved down again. This time Sherlock hadn't stopped him when his hand got inside his-

"Victor! I don't want to hear these things!" William screamed, surprised by his friend's bluntness.

"Oh c'mon. I know how kids your age are, you and Hamish do way worse anyway." The ginger had replied.

John's hand slid inside Sherlock's pants who was already all the way hard. That made him moan, allowing John to start moving on Sherlock's erection, still covered by his boxers that had become by then, too uncomfortable to handle. John's warm fingers were taking care of Sherlock with a disarming calmness and skill, so much that the violinist thought he was actually in heaven. He moaned again when John's hand squeezed him slightly, pumping in a constant movement that was driving Sherlock crazy. He jerked upwards and threw his head back, not aware of John's face getting closer and with his lips slight parted. When Sherlock got ahold of John's intentions it was already too late, his mouth already covering him all.

"John!" He exclaimed, sitting up.

"Don't tell me you weren't liking it!"

"No of course I was!" the violinist stuttered, panting. "But you don't have to." He added, running a hand through the other's hair who just laughed.

"Shut up and relax." he ordered, sending a shiver down Sherlock's spine. His tongue started licking the tip of his erection, making the other see the stars. He cupped him with his free hand, running his tongue down his shaft. Sherlock thought his tongue was made just for that. His hands were both busy, one was gripping the sheets he was on and the other was in John's hair, helping his pushes while the soldier started bobbing again.

"John.." called again Sherlock, this time pleasure filling his tone, throwing his head back a second time with his eyes closed.

John's hands squeezed the other's buttock, to guide himself better while he kept on playing with his tongue, taking Sherlock over the top. "John I'm pretty sure I'm-" but he couldn't even finish his sentence that a choked sound came from the soldier, who then wiped his mouth with his hand while the other was still on his butt-cheek.

Sherlock and John's hearts were beating in 'presto'.

"I'm sorry, who doesn't have to do what?" smirked John, before locking their lips in an everlasting kiss.

Well, it lasted until they heard Anastasija's voice in the hall.

The moans that had filled the room before were quickly replaced by John's swears which the Orthodox church would have surely never approved of. They started dressing quickly, even if Sherlock was still a bit shaken up.

"Sherlock, is John with you?" asked Anya, knocking at the door.

"Uh, no he's not here!" Sherlock screamed rather loudly, tossing John his shirt.

"Are you okay? You sound weird." The girl insisted, knowing something was up.

"Yes, all good." Sherlock reassured, looking at himself in the only mirror of the room, trying to fix his curls.

"Can I come in?" the great duchess asked again, making John roll his eyes as curses were still on his lips. He hid himself under the bed.

Anastasija didn't see John in that room, but the messy covers, the flushed cheeks of Sherlock and the black boots of the soldier made her suppose he was there. She didn't ask any questions, but with sadness in her heart she ran to her room.

That was the only time they'd tried going further than a kiss, more so because September came and trouble appeared in the fall.

Despite the little power the temporary govern had, the pillars of the tsarist absolute empire were beginning to tumble down. Amongst the people, the idea of communism had started to sound right, the example to follow, while Lenin's Bolsheviks were gaining more and more consents and with that, power.

"We have everything under control." Kept on repeating tsarina Aleksandra, words she didn't believe herself. Marija had stopped eating, Ol'ga and Tat'jana weren't sleeping, anxious of their family's health.

Aleksej's conditions were worsening day by day, and Anastasija had stopped smiling weeks before.

The awareness of the end getting near and being worse than they'd thought was eating them alive. They were getting through it all in different ways, but everyone had the same worry: death.

**OCTOBER 25TH 1917, SAINT PETERSBURG. 4:00 P.M.**

"What are you thinking of?" John asked, sitting down on the white couch, playing with his curls. Anastasija had just finished her violin lesson and had gone outside to breathe.

They had decided to go on with the lessons, because those were the only moments where Anastasija stopped thinking about the war. She had even gotten better in the past months.

"I don't know what to think." He replied, intertwining their fingers. "The end of the world is outside and I'm really, really scared." Sherlock hated to admit it, but he was getting used to feeling emotions since he'd met John.

"Everything will be okay." That had a bit of a lie in it, but John wanted to make Sherlock feel safe, becausethe only thing left for them was hope.

"We're not safe."

"I'll keep you safe. I promise." John had leant in to kiss him, but the other ducked his face with a chuckle, breaking the tension that had surrounded the air around them.

"They'll see us, dumbass." He'd said, pushing him away. John laughed with him, hugging him again. His fingers found his chin and his lips his jaw. "I want to seal my promise." He insisted, finally pressing his lips against the violinist's, who didn't reject him, but opened his mouth to deepen the kiss.

They'd found hope in that kiss, but with it their downfall. Because from the slightly opened door that Anastasija had left behind her, a cleaning lady walked in.

She'd frozen on the spot, shocked by the sight of it all. Immorality wasn't allowed back then, two men kissing. And more so, a soldier and a music teacher.

She hadn't wasted any seconds, she'd dropped her chores and ran quickly to the tsarina's room, confessing something that the Winter Palace had never seen before.

**OCTOBER 25TH, SAINT PETERSBURG. SEVEN P.M.**

"Your majesty." The young bowed, surprised by the calling, curious to know what she wanted.

The sight in front of him was like a déjà-vu: the tsarina was comfortably sitting on a couch, sipping her tea, exactly like the first time they'd met.

The only difference was in the eyes of Aleksandra, they were of an absent blue this time, and even her stern mask wasn't able to cover the loss of their color. Sherlock knew she had a heart of gold deep down, and that war was killing her like it was killing all of the Russian population.

"You've done a good job over the past year." The woman had begun, avoiding his eyes. "You were even able to teach something to my hot-tempered girls."

Sherlock hinted a smile, whispering a 'thank you'.

"You know, you could have even continued to work here, teaching my girls the violin. But then a bird told me about a certain relationship you have and well, Sherlock, that doesn't make my family look good."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat, or maybe two.

He was sure she was talking about him and John. His heart started beating faster as his sight became blurry. "What do you mean, your majesty?"

"You have to leave by tonight. We can't send away the soldier, we need him. But a violinist isn't necessary right now."

Sherlock gulped, composing himself the only way he knew how. "I was honored to be a part of your world and be at your service but I don't regret anything."

The tsarina was left speechless by the violinist's strong will but decided not to do anything about it, knowing that Sherlock was a good man.

"Dasvidania, your majesty. I wish you the best." He'd said, politely leaving the room.

He knew what he had to do, and nothing was going to stop him.

He walked back to his room, putting his fake face on just for a while.

"So?" Sherlock wasn't surprised to see John inside. He was sitting on his bed, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

The taller one closed the door behind him, locking it. He walked closer to the other and took his hands, positioning himself between the soldier's legs. He then ducked down and kissed him softly.

When they broke apart, a look of concern had made its way on John's face. "Why did you lock the door? What's happening?"

"I want us to.. just once." Sherlock closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts.

"Sherlock, we can't.. we risked it so many times. It's dangerous." John's words were pushing him away, but the way they'd come out wasn't nearly as negative. Sherlock's fingers were already unbuttoning the man's uniform and his lips were grazing his neck, sending shivers through John's spine.

"Once." Sherlock had repeated in a low tone, pressing his lips acrossJohn's jaw-line, trailing them down to his adam's apple. "And you like it when it gets dangerous."

John hadn't replied, he'd been wanting it for so long he couldn't find the strength to actually push him away and besides, hearing Sherlock's low baritone's voice say the word 'dangerous' had definitely played the part. He could sense there was something wrong, he wasn't stupid, but if Sherlock had wanted to take it to the next level, he was willing to as well.

Clothes were ripped off of each other's skin in twenty seconds, tops. Hands and lips roaming around in each other's necks, shoulders, chests, arms, stomachs, forearms, everything their mouths could get ahold of, it didn't matter.

It'd began with Sherlock on top, working his way down his lover's body, hands touching John from outside his rather tight pants. John loved Sherlock's lust-eyes, they were breath taking, different from everything he'd learned to know and admire about those sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes grey, sometimes golden irises.

Then the positions had flipped, John straddling Sherlock. Erection against erection. It was all new for Sherlock but he didn't let his thoughts ruin it for him. It was his only time he'd got to have John and he wasn't going to mess it up.

"No, I don't want to.." he'd began, once he saw John getting ready to wrap his mouth around him like he'd did once before. "I want to last for as long as I can, I want to feel you. And if you do.. that, I won't be able to." He'd explained, seeing John's confusion.

"Are you sure? We don't have to, you don't have to just because I'd like you to." John had whispered, running his thumb over Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock chuckled at his choice of words. "That's my line." He kissed his finger and then his lips, squeezing his eyes shut, wanting to both forget the reason why it was so important and remember everything about it.

John chuckled back. Sherlock loved his laugh almost as much as he loved his smile. "Okay." He'd agreed, bringing their lips together again and not parting until both of their underwear had been thrown off the bed. 

"Wet them, for me." The soldier instructed, grazing Sherlock's mouth with his fingers. And the violinist did it, he'd opened his mouth and sucked on those gorgeous fingers, causing John to moan in delight.

A few seconds later John's index finger had found Sherlock's entrance. They both shared a look.

_Can I?_

_Yes._

Sherlock's breath hitched for a split second, getting used to the feeling. John stood still, until the man below him told him otherwise. A few seconds later a second finger had made its way through and John was leaving wet kisses along Sherlock's chest and belly, distracting him and arousing him at the same time. A moan escaped from the taller one when the fingers inside him curled, making the other add a third. "Shit." Sherlock brought his hand to his mouth and bit it, wanting to keep quiet.

John could have gotten off with that sight alone. "You're the most gorgeous man I've ever seen." Had whispered the soldier in his ear, making him shiver.

"Please.." Sherlock begged, arching his back.

John was staring at him. He had taken his fingers out of him and positioned them on Sherlock's knee. The soldier nodded at him, with his mouth slightly parted. Sherlock nodded back.

He had never been more ready to feel John, all of him, than that moment. Even if John didn't know one of, and probably the most heartbreaking, reason behind it, Sherlock felt peaceful. He'd decided to enjoy the last moments he'd have with John without thinking about what was going to happen after. And so he did it. He tried to impress in his minds as many things as he could, from the way the light was lighting up his face, making his golden chest-hairs shine to how he moved. The way he'd bitten his lip while entering him, the way it felt, the way he'd closed his eyes and threw his head back. Everything about John in that moment,, and every other for the matter, was worth remembering.

"God, Sherlock." John moaned, leaning his hands between the man's head, making him recall the one time inside that room, against that door, where he would have wanted to kiss him. He did it then. He'd kissed him hard, cupping his face with his hands, tongues dancing together and loud breaths filling the room.

At every push Sherlock could feel himself getting closer, John's lips had found a spot in the crook of his neck and were playing around with his skin. And John was inside him. Rocking his world and all of the bad things out of it. "John I'm.." he'd called, rolling his eyes backwards at the tingling sensation in his lower belly.

"No, no! Don't come yet." He'd advised, stopping his movements and making the pressure disappear. "If this is our only chance, I want to feel you inside me, too." John had continued, sweat dripping off his forehead and on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock widened his eyes, surprised by the request. "But I've never-" he tried to argue, putting himself on his elbows, looking for approval in the soldier's eyes.

"It's okay." John smiled, kissing the tip of Sherlock's nose. "I won't force you to-"

"No, I want to do it."

Sherlock couldn't believe his own ears. Yet it was true, he wanted to feel John in a that way. It wasn't how he'd envisioned it all going, but it was something he'd realized he craved to do.

They switched the position again. It felt.. different, seeing John from above. Good, different.

Sherlock got John ready as well, a bit unsure of what to do at times, a bit following John's moans of appreciation. It took less time for John to stretch. John wasn't lying when he thought he could have gotten off just by looking at him.

"Okay, now.. ease your way in." John had instructed, once Sherlock's tip had been positioned.

Sherlock did as he was told. Honestly, Sherlock would have done anything John had told him in that sexy, low voice of his.

He got in easily, almost all of him right away. "Jesus.." John threw his head back, overwhelmed by how good Sherlock felt. He had had his stories in the army, but those were more like one night stands. That was sex, this, this was love.

"I get what the fuss's all about, now." Had chuckled Sherlock, inhaling sharply as he started moving.

"God, you're good." The soldier moaned at the violinist roll of hips.

Sherlock leaned closer and brought John's hands above his head, intertwining their fingers. "You flatter me." He whispered, biting his ear lobe.

"Mhh, how can I not praise you? Have you looked at yourself?" John said in between breaths and lip nibbling.

A few minutes of thrusting, back scratching and skin biting later they were both panting next to each other, sweaty and happy. They had fallen inside a bubble they didn't want to burst just yet. Sherlock's curls were messy on the top and flat on his forehead, his lips were swollen and his cheeks flushed. He felt like a mess. John found him beautiful.

Sherlock found John beautiful, too. His chest was rising up and down as quickly as his. He, too, was flushed and sweaty. Sherlock's fingers were drawing circles on his bare chest, studying it and feeling it for the last time. John looked like an angel.

"Shit, I have to go. I guard the girls, tonight!" John had hated to be the one to burst the bubble, but he had to leave if he didn't want to seem suspicious.

Sherlock put on a smile and nodded, helping John organize his clothes. "I'll be back once I put the girls to bed, though. You can tell me about what Aleksandra has talked to you about." The words stabbed Sherlock's heart, which was slowly coming back to the monotone beating.

"Okay." He'd agreed, pulling John in for a hug.

The soldier noticed something different in his eyes, they weren't shining as bright as before but Sherlock had reassured him, told him he was just tired.

Once John had kissed Sherlock one last time and unlocked the door, he carefully disappeared while Sherlock put down his mask.

His feet brought him to their bedroom, his mind reliving every moment spent with the soldier. From their first meeting to their first breakfast, their first kiss, their first heart to heart conversation and the moments before.

Sherlock had given him all that he was. Mind, body and even the soul he didn't think he had. Everything had been given, or taken without asking.

He loved him and he was sure of it. He loved him with all of his being, every bone and, even if there were billions of them, every cell. He sat down on the small couch, picking up the violin John had had fixed for him. He remembered how little he'd said thank you for the gesture, but he would have done that soon enough, before saying goodbye.

He couldn't even think about it. The truth was that he couldn't live without him, the year they'd spent together had been something else for Sherlock.

Without John he was left with nothing. Nothing but music. He placed the violin under his chin, closed his eyes and began playing. Memories were flashing in his mind, feelings passing through. How good he felt in John's arms, how his lips locked so perfectly with his, how his tongue tasted, everything. His fingers were moving from chord to chord, slowly remembering the circles made in John's chest and wishing they were there.

He spent most of the evening on pentagrams that had become penta_dramas_, writing symphonies that had become sym_phobies_.

**OCTOBER 25TH, SAINT PETERSBURG. 10:30 P.M.**

John was reading Anya a good book in the 'violin lesson's' room. They were both sitting on one of the couches.

"...He stepped down, trying not to look at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking." Read the soldier, with the head of the great duchess on his shoulder. John smiled at the 'Anna Karenina' quote, because while reading that sentence out loud, his mind went exactly to one person in his life who could have been affirmed as his 'sun'.

The reading, though, was interrupted by the tsarina, that with her usual formality and class had entered the room. "Anastasija." She called firmly, catching their attention. "Your sister Marija wanted to sleep, why don't you join her?" she'd asked, moving a strand of her blonde hair.

Anya got up, kissed John's cheek and walked towards her mother, already almost out the door.

"Oh, one more thing." She added, blocking the door with one of her hands. "You're not going to take violin lessons anymore. I had to fire Sherlock." She said, freezing John on the spot. "He had a relationship with a soldier, it wasn't helping the Romanov image." She continued, moving her gaze to John, in a stern look, before disappearing.

Anastasija was shocked by the news. She should have been happy, but she really wasn't. She could feel John's pain from behind her. She gulped, but the lump in her throat didn't want to move. With teary eyes, she turned.

John's eyes were wide open, staring at the ground. Everything had started making sense and he'd wished he knew. He brought his face between his hands as his sight had become foggy. "John.." she whispered, moving closer and taking one of his hands in hers.

"It's my fault, Anya." John muttered, cursing himself. "They saw us kissing, I shouldn't have."

Anastasija Nikolaevna Romanova decided to put her jealousy aside for the first time, and do something for her loving guard.

She grabbed his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. Coldness was what she got in return inside those eyes. She knew her blue eyes were the wrong ones, but she didn't care. She leaned closer and placed a kiss on the soldier's forehead.

"Go look for him." she'd said, leaving him there.

***

Sherlock had stopped playing. The papers of his symphony were spread on the floor, thrown away in frustration. He was sitting on the floor with his face hidden in his palms. He didn't want to cry, he wasn't used to, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't even able to hear the door open and close behind him, his thoughts were screaming too loud in his head and he didn't want to lock them away. He could have forgotten about it, if he'd wanted to. But it was John. He felt two arms around him, a touch he would have recognized at first glance and there he knew his soldier knew.

"Don't cry, my love." Whispered John, kissing his head, hugging him as tight as he could. Sherlock winced at the 'love' word coming from the voice he so adored. "Don't call me love, don't call me anything John."

John forced him to turn, moving his hands away from his face. The sight made the soldier's heart sink, he was supposed to be the strong one, the one who'd promised to keep him safe no matter what and he was going to live by that promise. He cupped his face, tears approaching in his eyes as well.

"Now you listen to me." He began, squeezing his legs against the violinist's. "I don't care about anything but you. I'm not letting you leave the Palace without me, am I being clear? We're going together, we can go to Moscow with your family or France, America, wherever you want. But don't you dare leave me because I don't function without you."

"I love you." Sherlock just muttered, two simple words that showed everything he was feeling in that moment. Because the love that had been ruling the man's body wasn't just happiness and joy, but also pain and sorrow and with those three words he wanted to show John that he didn't want to leave him, that they would have eloped together and that everything would have been okay. And to believe his own thoughts, he kissed John, tasting him and making him his for the hundredth time. He was still crying though, because John's taste was too good, because the soldier's hands had slid on his sides, squeezing them in a sweet motion. Sherlock's hands moved in the other's hair, tugging the ends and pulling him against his mouth harder and making him open it, tongues dancing in movements as fast as passionate. John tilted his head to the side to deepen the kiss a little better, while he was starting to lift his Sherlock's shirt, touching the skin he'd seen a few hours before, grazing his belly-button with his finger tips just to raise them up to his nipples, playing with them and making the violinist shiver in pleasure. He managed to take the shirt off, interrupting the kiss, an instant that felt like a whole year, then he came back to find the tongue of the other. Sherlock started undressing the soldier from that green uniform he'd began to hate, reminding of the war outside their door. He tried not to think about it, as he shimmered his shirt off his shoulders, the wound showing up to him once more. 

Sherlock caressed it, without interrupting the kiss, letting him know he intended to take care of all of wounds, no, that they would cure each other, inside or outside the Palace.

John squeezed the other's thighs, pulling him on him and making their hips collide, causing a moan to escape from both. Sherlock smiled, pressing his mouth against the soldier's once more and moving his hips against the other's.

That movement surprised the soldier, even if they'd already been through it once before, he would have never expected such eagerness from his boyfriend, especially after they'd already done it a few hours before.

The word boyfriend sounded good in John's head, they were together and they were going to be no matter what, which made him want him again even more.

He picked him up just slightly, enough to pull his pants and boxers down a few inches. Sherlock let him do it, even when the other's hand started pumping him.

But the truth was that he didn't want to feel left out, and pleasing John had been such a sight he wanted to do it again. With a bit of courage and between moans, he started to loosen his belt and unbutton his pants. With a slightly trembling hand and the other squeezing lightly John's shoulder, he went inside that fabric, touching the already formed erection of the soldier. It was hot and hard and Sherlock thought it was perfect for his hands, starting to move slowly, hoping to do the right thing.

"Sherlock!" moaned John, getting his mouth close to the other's shoulder to bite it and suffocate his moans. "Please, keep going." He prompted, kissing and sucking on his neck, as his hand was still moving.

Both hands on the other's member, mouths sucking on their pale skin and their heart beats synchronized. They weren't feeling wrong, as the tsarina had clearly called them. They weren't feeling right either, because they were doing something unusual, and for the second time in a few hours. They only felt like John and Sherlock, two people in love about to make love.

The desire was growing uncontrollably, so John stood up and brought Sherlock up with him. He leaned him against the wooden desk where Sherlock had written his song, finally sliding off his pants and boxers along with his uniform and boots.

Sherlock's hands went back into John's hair, man who resumed the kiss that had been broken and began to caress every bit of skin of the violinist.

"Don't let anyone say that I know nothing about music." Had chuckled against the taller's lips, while Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Idiot." He'd even told him. John chuckled again, taking his lips in again and again, torturing them, as his hands were opening the violinist's legs. Parting from the kiss, he brought two of his fingers over his mouth, licking them as much as he could. That scene made Sherlock excite even more, who with no shame and embarrassment, had started to touch himself on his own with his lips parted and heavy breathing. John couldn't resist at the sight of Sherlock pleasing himself, so without any warning he slid a finger inside him, stretching him as much as he could.

Sherlock was still sore from their first round, so it did sting a little bit. It didn't last long though and was soon replaced by cries of pleasure when John added a second one. The soldier gazed at the other's expression in admiration. He slipped his fingers out, resting their foreheads together. "I want to feel you again." Mumbled the violinist, wrapping his legs around John's waist. The man didn't have to hear it twice and slid all the way in one push.

The pushes were getting quicker and quicker by the second and the flesh wrapped around him was driving John crazy. Sherlock was helping his thrusts with his hips, in synchrony with John's.

Once again they were alone in the room, no noise but their skin's and heart beat's.

They could hear nothing but their breaths mixing together, their moans meeting and their trembles uniting.

They couldn't hear that outside the Palace, the Bolsheviks were already taking over Saint Petersburg, in a battle of horrors and blood. They couldn't hear the reds getting closer to the Palace, neither the screams of the people. They couldn't hear that the October Revolution had already begun.

Sherlock and John's hearts were beating in 'prestissimo.'

***

"What are you thinking about now, Sherlock?" had asked John, hugging him and collecting himself after the orgasm he'd just had. He'd caressed his flushed cheeks, helping him down the wooden desk without leaving him.

"I want to go to Moscow. And France and America." Replied the violinist, pecking his lips. "Honestly everywhere as long as you come with me."

"I'll follow you everywhere." John smiled, walking to get their clothes.

They got dressed in silence, eyes still roaming over each other's bodies, lips curving at each other like a couple of teenagers.

Once the soldier had buttoned up his shirt, he walked closer to Sherlock, taking his hand and squeezing it firmly yet delicately, playing with the fingers which still held the memory of his body fresh.

"I'm going to pack my bags and tell Anya I'm leaving. I can't leave without saying goodbye." He'd explained, kissing one of Sherlock's temple. He nodded. John and the girl had shared a special bond and he'd feared he wanted to greet her goodbye before their eloping. He'd shivered at the thought, it was a bad world out there. But as long as they were together, nothing could have gone wrong.

"Tell her she's been the most demanding kid I have ever tutored."

He sighed, thinking back about all of the lessons spent with the great duchess, all of her frowns and pouts, then smiled. "Tell her I love her, will you?"

John kissed him, nibbling at his lips with his teeth, asking to deepen the kiss. "Go say goodbye." Sherlock had denied, pushing him away before pulling him back in again by his shirt. "Just be careful and come backas soon as you can. Back to me."

An honest sentence that sounded more like a prayer, coming straight from his heart, a request that sounded more like a promise to keep according to John.

The soldier kissed his forehead, then his eyes and his nose, his lips and chin. "I love you." He'd replied, promising not only to come back soon, but to be by his side forever, protecting him like the best of soldiers.

They achingly parted, pecking at each other's lips one more time before going their separate ways. One to pack his bag and the other to little Anastasija.

**OCTOBER 26th, SAINT PETERSBURG. 00:30 a.m.**

While walking through the long corridors of the Palace, John had noticed something was wrong. Usually at that time of night there were only a few people around. But that night there were people running around, some bringing piles of clothes. Without thinking about it too much, the soldier had started running towards the great duchesses room, hoping Anastasija was still awake.

But the truth was that inside that room, all of the Romanov family, minus the tsar, had gathered there in a silence that scared John. In the enormous room filled with the family and a few guards there was so much tension that the soldier couldn't not feel sick.

The first person he noticed was the tsarina. She was looking outside the window with an expression of horror, wide eyed and mouth open. John closed his eyes, he was almost certain it was just one of his nightmares. But then he glanced around the room, to her kids and he couldn't think of anyone but Sherlock, whom he'd left alone.

Anastasija ran up to him, face wetting his uniform.

"Oh John, it's you." Little Marija had said, with her white dress, wrinkled by her moving hands.

John squeezed Anya, asking her what had happened. Ol'ga was the one who'd replied, holding Aleksej on her lap.

"They took over Saint Petersburg." Had replied the older one, long black haired wrapped in a braid.

John couldn't understand those words right away. He kept on rubbing Anastasija's back while she was crying and she wasn't giving him any hints on stopping. He'd started wondering if Sherlock had packed his bags, if he knew, if he was okay.

Sherlock, Sherlock, only Sherlock in his mind.

John wanted to cry, not only because he had to say goodbye to the little girl he was holding, but because with the taking of Saint Petersburg, his escape with Sherlock had just become twice as hard, if not more.

He wasn't sure of anything anymore, he wasn't sure they were going to make it. He just knew that he would have taken his boyfriend's hand and flew out of there, away from the pain, the enemies and the screams.

John went into full soldier mode, he couldn't lose focus then. Holding Anya tightly, he brought her in a corner of the room, trying to stop her crying.

"Sherlock says he loves you, you know?" he'd told her, forcing a smile. "He says bye." He added, trying to distract her from the war. Anastasija wiped her tears away, sniffing. "But I've always treated him poorly." She'd confessed, surprised by John's statement.

John kissed her forehead and hugger her again. "He doesn't care, he loves you anyway."

So Anastasija cried harder, regretting every single moment of jealousy she'd ever felt, every moment she'd tried to separate the two. She'd cried because the end was near, she could feel it in her bones and limbs, and she'd cried because she had never had the chance to fall in love.

She'd regretted not having hugged Sherlock. She'd cried because she could have had defended the violinist's dismissal. She'd cried because she should have let them elope months earlier, when San Petersburg was still safe.

"We're going to take the secret hall and run from Saint Petersburg." Had said Aleksandra, interrupting everyone's thoughts.

She'd elegantly walked away from the window, opening a little door behind one of the wardrobes. John already knew about that hall that would take out of town, like an escape way from the Palace.

Aleksandra picked her son up and wrapped both of them in a white scarf. With her free hand and the arms of Aleksej around her neck, she leaned her diamond crown on a nightstand.

"They're here." She'd finally said, motioning to her older daughters to get into the passage.

There was an explosion right after that shook the windows and the beds. The reds were there with the intention of taking over the Winter Palace as well, the last symbol of the tsar's power.

Nobody had time to think, the guards had started to push everyone from the Romanov's family towards the tunnel.

John had just stood still. He couldn't move, his head was spinning. Anastasija had pushed John away in a lucid movement.

"Go to Sherlock!" she'd screamed, before kissing his cheek and walking inside the tunnel that was closed right after by the greatduchess herself.

That was the last time John had seen Anastasija, and when exactly three seconds later he'd got he had to run to Sherlock, he'd thanked her with all his heart she'd let him save the love of his life.

***

He'd sprinted outside the room like a jet, but the crowd of servants ate him in, troubling his movements. There were screams, cries, somebody was trying to find a way out, but the awareness that everything would have just ended from there in a minute made the pain as real as death.

John tried not to give up. He knew the Palace like the back of his hand and he would have found a solution. First he had to find Sherlock. He noticed that there were no soldiers around, probably busy blocking the entrances from the reds.

Minutes passed but of Sherlock there was no trace. Anxiety was rising inside John, his mind was beginning to lose focus, literally driving himself mad at the thought of someone hurting him. He heard screaming again, gun shots and silent cries from the women of the Palace that had lost every bit of hope they had left, hugging their kids and regretting being born in Russia.

John was breathless as he was looking through the rooms. He'd leaned on a wall, trying to gain his strength back, as he tried to fight back tears and the images that were starting to flood in his mind: he couldn't even think about them having Sherlock, or worse, that they'd already.. he groaned at the thought, opening his eyes and resuming his search. He'd called him out loud, he'd screamed his name, hoping to receive any kind of response, but there was none.

But then he saw him and it was like breathing, like finally being able to breathe after being underwater for so long, like touching the ground after a fall and not dying. He was there in front of him, trying to move past the crowd of a corridor.

Their eyes locked and there was nothing more beautiful that those blues mixed together in a color of hope.

"John!" Sherlock screamed as loud as he could, pushing people here and there and freeing himself from their grip.

John did the same, crying again and again, until he was able to take the other's hand, in a shocking grip they'd never felt before them. He would have wanted to hug him and tell him that they were going to make it, but there was no time, he was forced to move his gaze away from the violinist's but squeezed his hand so strong that it'd become white, then he dragged him out, running towards a possible exit.

They'd run for what felt like eternity inside that Palace. They had heard that the reds were moving forward, that the guards wouldn't have resisted that long and so they had to hurry."Here." Shouted John, turning suddenly in an alley that wouldn't have taken them anywhere. "Damn it." He swore again, biting his lip without giving up. They'd walked back, keeping on that long corridor that ended with a flight of stairs. They'd walked down quickly, risking to trip, hand in hand they would have fallen together.

But that's how it was working then, both or no one. They had become one.

"John." Had called Sherlock, in a pain like tone. The soldier didn't look at him, but began to stroke his hand with his thumb, trying to reassure him.

But nothing was sure anymore.

They managed to get to the basement of the Palace, dark and dusty places, probably never used either. Sherlock kept on following the soldier's pace, who seemed to know his way around.

"Where are we going, John?" He'd asked, panting, both for the run and the fear.

"There should be a room somewhere with a way out, I just.." the soldier explained, looking around and trying to remember which door was the right one.

Then a sigh of relief: he'd found it.

He turned to Sherlock, eyes bright, letting him know that the door was inside the room they'd stopped in front of.

He'd opened the door of the small room, filled with some old furniture. They could hear steps approaching the stairs they'd come down from: the advance was close, the guards had given up. John took a deep breath and walked inside the room, dragging Sherlock in with him and closing the door behind him. The little light that was coming in allowed John to find the small door easily. He'd discovered it the year before, he'd been bored one night so he'd come down there to find a room for him and Sherlock. He walked closer to the door, turning the doorknob, as the violinist behind him waited patiently, after all they'd found a way out.

John was even able to smile as he opened the door towards him.

A smile that had lasted for about a second.

A second in music is a fundamental unit. In a second you can play more than a note. You can put a pause, or start a new beat. You can begin a new scale or an arpeggio, or you can just place yourself in front of a metronome and listen to it tick. A single tick in a single second.

A second in life is fundamental. In a second you can kiss your boyfriend's lips, you can graze his cheek or make him laugh. A second can be filled with a smile, a moan of pleasure, with an 'I love you' said suddenly or with a beginning of a Tolsoj's quote. A second could also be the steps of the enemy advancing. A second could be the acknowledgment of the end, that everything was lost.

In a second you can become aware of the fact that the passage you'd found a year before and in which you'd hoped had been bricked shut.

A single heart beat in a second.

Then nothing.

John turned to Sherlock, after realizing it was all over. He'd walked past him quickly, moving a commode in front of the door, trying to delay the reds's arrival just for a little bit.

Sherlock had kept still, he'd closed his eyes and thought about his family for a second. He'd said goodbye to his mother and father. He'd remembered his brother, how many things, and he hated to admit it, he'd done for him. Hoping his mother wouldn't suffer too much for the loss of a son. He'd prayed to a God he didn't believe in to protect them.

John had leant his ear against the door, trying to understand from which way the reds were coming. And they were closer than he'd thought.

The only thing left to do, then, was to turn to the love of his life and kiss him for the last time. It was a devastating kiss that soon tasted of bitter tears, of groans of pain and lost hopes.

Their tongues were meeting in a dangerous dance of death.

_"Love hinders death. Love is life."_ Pronounced John, once he'd parted from the other.

_"All, everything that I understand, I understand because I love."_ Had continued Sherlock, quoting for what was probably their last time their loved Tolstoj, that in some way had brought them together. Or maybe they would have found each other either away, in another life, without war, phobias, with nothing able to get in the way.

_"Everything is united by it alone."_ Concluded John, hugging him tightly and waiting.

They didn't need to tell each other anything else. Their gaze, locked one with the other, was speaking for them.

The light blue eyes thanked the golden ones for having healed his war wounds, allowed him to get to know a beautiful world and let him love it.

The golden gaze thanked the blue one for having taught him how to love, made him fall in love and saved him from himself and his fears.

Then a push against the door: someone was trying to get in.

Sherlock smiled at John.

John smiled at Sherlock.

They didn't regret anything. Every choice they'd made had brought their roads to meet, for that alone they didn't have any regrets.

It was fine like that, it was fine even dying. As long as they died together.

Another push against the door: this time, the commode's legs were too old to stop it from moving.

John wanted to do one last thing, before falling at the mercy of the enemy. He wanted to touch his cheek. That's how he'd started loving him for the first time. Yeah, he'd already fallen for him at their first meeting, then at their second and at the third. The more the days passed, the more John was falling in love with Sherlock.

So, with a shaking hand, he'd leant his thumb on the wet cheeks of the violinist, saying goodbye that way.

He'd said goodbye just like he'd said hello, at the beginning of what was their love story.

The last push against the door: The thud of the furniture that had given up.

Sherlock and John's hearts beat for the last time.

In synchrony. 

_William's tears had wet all of Victor's shirt at that point, and was hugging him tight._

_After a few minutes the younger was able to collect himself, apologizing for the wet shirt._

"You should have told me in the beginning that this was going to end badly." He said, punching Victor's shoulder that winced in pain. "Next time I won't tell you anything, don't worry!" He joked, touching his arm.

"How do you have this symphony then? The papers were in John and Sherlock's room." William had asked, curious and with his eyes furrowed.

"Someone had the common sense to save them and pass them on to posterity."

"How do you know this story, then? Did you just make it up?" Will accused, getting pissed.

"Go home, Holmes. It's late."

William sighed, looking at the clock: it was indeed very late, so without thinking too much of it, he ran out of the little shop. Yet, Victor Trevor knew.

He knew William had been profoundly touched by that story and that he would have come back to hear it again.

Victor put his violin back in its cage and closed his eyes, mentally answering the question William had asked him.

**June 1918, Ekaterinburg.**

"_Dear Diary,_

_This imprisonment is killing me inside. I'd rather get killed than suffer this way. We're all devastated by this situation, there's no hope. But we've given into the bitter reality and I, Anastasija Nikolaevna Romanova, is not afraid of dying._

_Well maybe a little bit, but you dear diary, will remain a secret._

_You know what? Today I want to tell you a beautiful story. The other ones are sleeping, so I can write without getting mocked._

_Once upon a time there was a soldier named John and a violinist named Sherlock.."_

**Author's Note:**

> -THIS STORY HAS BEEN TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN VERSION OF IT 'SINFOBIE' WHICH WAS ABOUT HARRY STYLES AND LOUIS TOMLINSON. I DON'T OWN THE STORY IN ANY WAY, I JUST ADAPTED IT AND TRANSLATED IT. THANK YOU SO SO MUCH, I hope you enjoyed it!-💕


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